


Come Back Home

by freyafrida



Series: come back home [1]
Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 49,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyafrida/pseuds/freyafrida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Walter survives Courcelette. In a way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: we are the lucky ones

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: vague but still possible triggery depiction of war.
> 
> Title of fic is general enough to not really need credit, I think, but I did get it from "Hangover Payback" by MAA.
> 
> Title of this chapter is from "Lucky" by Bif Naked.

He wakes up away from the front lines, in a field hospital full of warmth and voices - so many voices. Not shouts like in the trenches; only murmurs and whispers, the occasional groan of men in pain. How long has it been since he heard someone murmur? It seems like all he can recall is screaming, orders barked across the lines and then anguished cries as friends and comrades died around him. There's a quiet hum of activity around him, buzzing like the flies that surrounded the dead in the trenches.

"You're awake."

The nurse is young and lovely, with a lilting accent and sweet, hopeful eyes. Walter is sure he's seen her on a propaganda poster somewhere, urging him to fight for the lands that bore daughters like her. Are German girls this lovely? He almost laughs. As if the bloom of youth and optimism can only be confined to one empire. They're not so different. That's what he's learned.

He cannot move, not really. He tries to recall, but finds that it's all a blur - a haze of shells and fire and ducking behind sandbags - and then the gas. The scrambling for their masks and he'd gotten his on in time (hadn't he?) but he'd torn his jacket a week ago, yes, this he remembers, and the words of his commanders, _the gas will get at any uncovered skin, so be sure to patch up_ -

Ah.

The burns will heal, the medic tells him. He'll never be quite _comfortable_ again, but soon it will not hurt so much to move his arms or turn his body.

His leg is another matter. He'd been hit by a shell - or two - they tell him, in the thigh (there's an artery there, a big one, and the largest bone in the body, Walter remembers from his father's books and Jem's doctor talk). This Walter does not remember - it must have happened after he'd passed out.

He will walk again, in a manner of speaking - they show him pictures of survivors, men standing with their canes and crutches, gripping them like old Elder Clow back home - ancient before their time. But it is not this that worries Walter. It is their faces, their eyes, empty and staring at something only they can see. Does he look like that now?

Lucky, they say. Lucky to be burned and bent, twenty-three and hobbled like an old man. Walter understands, in a way. He nods his head as if he agrees.

~

His days settle into a pattern. They change his bandages, stitch and re-stitch his leg, clean his wounds. They're not quite quick enough - infection settles in, and Walter loses another month to fires and pain and the certainty that _this_ time, he will die.

He does not.

On his skin, the burns blister, then settle. Walter learns how to angle his body when he sleeps, so as not to put pressure on the burns on his back.

His family has been notified and he receives letters by the bundle. They are kind and warm and full of sympathy. Walter is glad for them, but somehow - they do not touch him. The once-familiar feeling of his soul being filled by beautiful words or images or sounds doesn't come. It is as though he is holding his own emotions at arm's length.

But he cannot tell them that, so he writes back, trying to recall how he used to talk, what the Walter-that-was would say.

The pretty nurse brings him their responses and lightly jokes about the volume of mail, but Walter cannot bring himself to appreciate her beauty or her sweetness.

The wounds slowly heal. Some of them, at least.

~

1917 comes and scar tissue forms. They send him to a hospital, a real one in a building with walls and floors, to make way in the field tent for more groaning, injured men.

He learns to walk with a cane, learns to tread without slamming it down onto the floor when he forgets and tries to use a leg that is useless. Some of the other men arrange races, tottering down the hallways, laughing through their bitterness. Walter even wins one, once, and for a moment he feels just a bit lighter.

~

Sometimes they go out together, in a group - safety in numbers. It's easier, this way, to pretend that the stares aren't directed at one of them, individually - Hartley and his missing arm, Macdonald with his eyepatch, Burrows's smile twisted at the corner by a scar that slices down his face, Blythe with his cane and shiny, burn-scarred skin peeking out above his collar.

Sometimes they talk, sometimes they play cards or football (this Walter can only watch), and he almost forgets. Then he has to go back to his hospital bed and receive his inspections, and it all comes back.

He'll have to stay here forever, he thinks. No one will ever want to play cards with him again except these other soldiers, just as damaged as he is. They'll all just have to live together, a house of the ruined.

He's almost reconciled to the idea when they tell him that he is to be released. Not fully healed, but out of danger, they say, as though they never hear the shouts and weeping of the men in the night. But he is not going back to the front, able-bodied as he no longer is. No, he is going home.

"Lucky bastard," murmurs Burrows, whose ruined visage is nevertheless still capable of sight, speech, and hearing, so back to France he will be going.

Lucky. Walter tries to believe it.


	2. take me home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title (and subsequent German) from "Bring mich nach Hause" by Wir sind Helden. Apologies if I've borked the language anywhere.

_Bring mich nach Hause_. It's funny, Walter thinks, that he only learns about the Germans once he's sent to destroy them. _Take me home_. The last plea of several soldiers, murmured words of dying bodies he'd stepped over in no-man's land.

He takes a shuddered breath, turning to look out the train window. He is not there any longer, if he can believe that. It is still too - surreal. The journey across the ocean, the first step onto Canadian land - it was only a few days ago, but already it seems like a dream, separated from the present. Outside he sees the green sweetgrass and the familiar red roads, and he wonders how he can be _here_ when he cannot seem to leave _there_ in his own mind, no matter how hard he tries.

The train arrives at one o'clock, exactly on schedule - how could he have ever complained about the Glen trains being late? Things are always on time here, not like at the front, where trains are stopped and horses cannot pass through the mud ( _and the fire and the shells and the corpses_ ).

He shakes his head, a habit he's developed since leaving the front. _You're not there anymore_. As if he can toss the memories off like water, like Dog Monday after a bath.

When he gets off the train, they've all gathered to welcome him home - his family, Susan, and the Merediths. He's glad the rest of the Glen hasn't come along, either in celebration or curiosity. He knows he's the first of their sons to come back home, but the idea of being around all those people makes him ill.

"Walter!"

Rilla reaches him first, throwing her arms around him, her body colliding into his with an alarmingly solid _thump_. For a moment, Walter thinks his gangly baby sister will break him, the soldier, in half. She smells of soap and grass and all the things of home, and Walter feels just a little safer. Rilla is laughing and crying, just a bit, and Walter has to smile - just a bit, too. He doesn't want her to cry over him ( _but if she knew what he's seen, she probably would never stop_ ).

Then Mother and Father. Walter has never resisted their hugs the way Jem has, but he finds himself standing stiff and awkward when they embrace him. He wants to fall into their arms like a child; he wants to stand straight and tall as he was trained. He can't bring himself to quite do either.

Susan - good, solid Susan - takes her turn holding him, then steps back and sniffs in disapproval. "I trust in the British army as much as anyone else," she says, "but I _did_ think they'd be feeding you blessed boys better."

Walter finds his mouth quirking up into a smile. Some things, at least, have not changed, and that is a relief. Perhaps he can learn to breathe easily again here, after all.

Reverend and Mrs. Meredith are next, clasping his free hand and murmuring words that Walter doesn't quite hear. Mr. Meredith's eyes are placid and gentle, and when he takes his hand, he gives Walter a searching look, as though Walter has some kind of answer that he needs to know.

Then Una. She steps forward and Walter recalls with sudden clarity the kiss he gave her before he left. He still isn't sure why he had done it - he had been so sure that he wouldn't see home again, and perhaps that is all. But a kiss goodbye is one thing. One upon reunion is quite another.

Thankfully, she doesn't seem to expect it, and only reaches out to touch his hand. Her fingers are surprisingly cold.

"I'm glad you're back," she says, simply.

He can only nod, wonders what to say to her - he'd thought about her surprisingly often while he was overseas, but somehow it doesn't seem to be significant, not with her here in front of him. Not that it matters - anything either of them intend to say is cut off by little Bruce, who tugs at his trouser leg and asks if he saw Jem over in France, and did he tell him that Bruce has been _extra_ good so that Jem will come home; he says an extra prayer every night and he let Timothy Crawford have two of his favorite stamps from his collection - "And that was an act of charity, wasn't it?"

They all laugh then, and the Merediths whisk Bruce away before Walter can disappoint him.

"We'll visit soon," Rosemary says. "It's good to have one of our boys back."

She means it kindly, Walter is sure, but he feels an odd sort of panic. They'll want to hear about the war, eventually. They'll want him to tell them what it was like to fight for his country; they'll want him to tell them that it hasn't been in vain, that their sons will come back and everything will be as it was before.

Walter has never been a very good liar.

* * *

Rilla holds his arm and chatters all the way home, telling him about Jims and the Junior Reds. He hadn't really realized how much he missed her, how much of her personality could never be captured in letters.

"Olive Kirk is unbearable," she sighs, balancing Jims expertly on her hip as she helps Walter out of the buggy. Walter is almost alarmed at how natural she looks with the child - Rilla, who abhorred children, who could barely take care of herself, let alone another human being. _How things change_.

Not that she's lost her flair for the dramatic, of course - she claims to be in the _depths of despair_ over Irene Howard. "She is odious, honestly, and now everything is mess because we're all on different sides and no one will let the other side get anything done" - but her infamous italics are noticeably absent, and Walter has the strangest feeling that he is talking to an equal, someone who has grown and suffered. Not a little sister, not a baby.

"You've changed," he tells her, cutting off whatever rant she's about to go on. He'd realized it in her letters, of course - she'd become more serious, more considerate in her writing. But it's in her very presence now that he realizes just how much.

She blinks. "Have I?"

He smiles a little, wishing he had a free hand to wrap around her shoulders like the old times. "Yes. I don't think even Jem could call you a baby anymore."

Her lips quirk, but something sad flickers in her eyes when he says Jem's name, and he wants to kick himself. Of course. It had been easy to pretend, in the trenches - hear the whispers of troop movement and the relief of knowing that, even for a brief time, someone you loved was away from the front lines. Easy to pretend that it would always be so.

"I don't mind 'baby' so much as 'Spider'," she sniffs, her tone light. Trying to make the conversation easier.

Walter is about to respond, but then he crosses the threshold and it hits him that he is _home_. Ingleside's parlor looks the same as it always has, the afternoon sunlight catching the glass on the mantle, and he can hear Susan preparing lunch in the kitchen - it is as it always was in his dreams, but this is not a dream. He is here, for good this time.

He's not sure he can breathe.

Rilla notices the change, notices his lack of response, and curls her arm protectively around his. His baby sister, consoling him. Well - isn't that how it was, before he left, when being called _coward_ was the worst that had happened to him? Perhaps he hasn't won any strength of his own in France after all.

"Susan made a batch of monkey faces," she says, pulling him back to reality. "It's a good thing Shirley's away, or you two would have to fight over them."

Walter's mouth quirks, as he tries to ignore the sting that Shirley's name causes - his silent little brother, gone without fuss or ceremony. "I'm afraid Shirley would have the advantage there," he says, shifting his weight briefly to his bad leg. "But then, that would never happen. You know Susan would make a batch especially for him - _you_ and I would have to do the fighting, Rilla-my-Rilla."

She breaks into a smile, apparently relieved that he can still joke, and impulsively throws her arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance.

"I missed you," she says, her voice muffled in his collar.

Walter wishes he could hug her back without falling over, but she lets him go before he can try.

"Sorry," she says. "I - forgot."

He gives her a small smile. "I forget sometimes, too."

"Really?"

He tells her about when he'd first received his crutches and then his cane, how he would try to step forward on his injured leg or let go of his crutches to open a door. Rilla smiles as though uncertain whether or not she should laugh.

He wants to tell her that it is fine, that all he wants is for everything to be as it was before, but he's not sure if that's even possible - and Susan calls for lunch before he can even try.

His plate is heaped with some of his favorite foods - he has at least twice the amount as everyone else.

"Oh, Susan," Mother says, laughing. "You'll make him explode."

Susan purses her lips. "I have not given him _that_ much food, Mrs. Dr. dear - and Walter could never look like one of those horrible _zeppelins_ anyway. Those European languages really are something else, but I'm not sure even those strange French names could be quite as ugly as that language the Germans made up - "

German hadn't always been ugly, not all the time. Sometimes they could hear the conversation from the opposing side, across no-man's land, the rhythm of _ja_ s and _bitte_ s, _ist_ and _sehr_ , _Vater unser im Himmel, geheiligt werde dein Name_...

Susan is still talking. "What _were_ they feeding you at the front? I'd write to that Winston Churchill - he's no Lord Kitchener, to be sure - but then, note-writing is more President Wilson's territory, and I do _not_ approve of that man's tactics."

They all chuckle, careful not to laugh too loudly and offend Susan, who always speaks in utmost seriousness when it came to such matters.

"We mostly ate bread," Walter says, in response to her question. "Sometimes meat, but tinned meat isn't exactly - the most savory thing you'll ever eat. Tea, water, beer…" He shrugs. Only a few months - or has it been longer? - and he's already forgotten what he'd eaten, day in and day out - the same meal every day. Memory is strange that way.

Susan frowns. "You haven't started _drinking_ , have you?"

Dad coughs loudly in an attempt to cover up his laughter. Walter thinks he smiles, but he's not sure his face quite makes it there.

* * *

His room is the same as it always has been - not a thing has been moved. He runs a finger along his bookshelf, but it comes away clean. Of course - Susan still would've dusted, keeping it ready for him. She is like that.

He sits on the bed - his bed - his rucksack (a German word, he remembers, they hate them so much but yet they share so many things) at his feet. He knows the contents well - another set of clothes, his letter of discharge, his medal of "Distinguished Conduct" - as though he'd done anything _distinguished_ \- the few photos and trinkets he'd taken with him to the front, some poems, his letters. _This is it, then_ , he thinks. All the proof that he was ever there, ever survived. All that separates him from the Walter-that-was and the Walter-that-is.

 _No more of that_. This is why he had gone in the first place, isn't it? To prove that he is bigger than his fears, bigger than cowardice and petulance - big enough to see beyond himself. What was it Nan had said, one night before he left? _"The way Walter broods, you'd think this was his war alone."_ He had hated her in that moment, but over in Flanders, had realized that she was right. That was the night he had written "The Piper."

He feels the sudden urge to see the poem, to look at his words and know they are real. It takes him a minute to reach his bag - he can't quite bend the way he used to, skin pulling painfully as it stretches and joints protesting as he leans down. _You should ask Elder Clow how he gets up in the morning_ , Ken had joked in his last letter. Walter's not sure that's such a terrible idea.

The magazine that printed his poem is in a bundle with several unanswered letters - he has to write back, he reminds himself. He traces the black print with his fingertips, reading his own words back to himself. _What matter that if Freedom still be the crown of each native hill?_ It was worth it. He has to believe that.

(There is another poem, one more difficult to read, crushed at the bottom of his bag. But he will not think on that, not now, not in his room bright with sunshine, surrounded by everything he loves. Those thoughts have no place here.)

He replaces the magazine and looks at the letters. The first one is from Di - Di, his favorite sister, his confidant. He can't even remember what she had written to him about. That makes him feel guilty - he has not been the best brother.

 _Or the best friend_ , he adds mentally as he looks through the rest - Jerry and Carl and Ken and Faith and Una had all written to him while he was in the hospital, and he had only responded with short notes telling them that he was returning to the Glen. He has to write them something real now. Una, he decides, he can leave - anything he wants to tell her, he can say in person.

The rest, though…He sighs. He's not sure what to tell them. But he's ignored them long enough.

Walter sits down at his desk - his desk with its upright chair, different pens in the old jam jar he'd taken from the pantry. No more crouching over in the damp and dirt, peering through candlelight, trying not to press too hard for fear he'll tear the paper against whatever flimsy surface he's writing upon.

No, he is home, and he is safe. Soon, everything will be right again.

As he writes to Di, telling her all that has transpired, using his way with words to regale her as if it were all an adventure, he almost begins to think it true.


	3. enough to go by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Enough to Go By" by Vienna Teng.

The day begins like any other, like all the days have for the last three years. _Has it really been three years?_ Una thinks. Sometimes she wonders if time really is passing at all. Seasons slip by, Bruce grows taller and Father and Rosemary develop lines on their faces that are a bit too premature, but they are still trapped in limbo - the whole world holding its breath until this war is over. She has been twenty for three and a half months now, and she feels just as aimless as she had at seventeen. She cannot possibly look to the future, not when it is so uncertain.

Una is carefully sorting through Rosemary's music books when the phone rings. Her stepmother has been busier and busier, and as such Una is now giving her music lessons to the littlest Clow girls, twice a week. Rosemary insists that she keep their payment for herself, and Una has a little collection of savings now, tucked away in one of her drawers. She likes it, she finds - her own money to use however she wishes, to save for the future or spend on frivolities. She likes planning the songs she'll teach to the girls, and they are thankfully well-behaved, for Una has never been much of a disciplinarian. She hums a bit as she shakes a leaf of sheet music from one of the books. It is a nice song, simple. She'll use it in the next lesson.

It is these thoughts that are interrupted when John Meredith comes in. He has an odd expression on his face, as though he perhaps isn't sure if he's feeling the correct emotion.

"That was Ingleside," he says.

Una frowns. Calls from Ingleside are not uncommon, given the close ties between the manse and the doctor's house, but her father's expression is giving her pause. Her mind races through the possibilities - does Rilla need to see her? Something about the Junior Reds? Or - no, that is too commonplace for the look on her father's face. Perhaps it's something else. Perhaps one of them is ill, gravely so. They need her father for their last rites. Nerves start in Una's stomach.

She is so absorbed in this thought that she almost doesn't hear her father - almost. But she could never miss his next words - if he had whispered them in an upstairs room behind a locked door, she would have heard them.

"Walter Blythe is coming home."

The sheet music slips out of Una's hands. She blinks and quickly gathers it back up, ducking her head to avoid her father's gaze. They are alike - too alike - and she's sure that he could decipher her feelings in an instant. And Una is not prepared for that to happen.

"Oh," she says. "That's - good. Isn't it?"

"I'm sure the Blythes are relieved. We all are," he adds.

There's something he's not saying - something he won't tell her. But Una thinks she knows. She remembered the letter he had sent Rilla, that Rilla had shown her. It had come a few weeks after the news that he had been injured, and it had been painful to read - his certainty that he would die, and his relief. _"And life, I think, would be the harder of the two to face - for it could never be beautiful for me again."_

But nothing has turned out the way anyone expects, not since that summer of 1914 - a tiny, critical part of Una that she desperately tries to ignore thinks that Walter should know that by now. They all should.

"It will be good to have one of them back," she says, turning back to the sheet music, trying to hide the shaking of her fingers.

"Una - " her father starts, but then stops. Instead, he gives a little shake of his head and turns back towards the door. "Yes, I suppose it will."

* * *

When the train pulls in, Rilla Blythe lets out a breath so quiet that only Una hears it. She understands. They have all been waiting, anticipation curled in their stomachs like springs for the last month. Every day, Una had half-expected to hear that he had gotten sick again, or his train had been delayed, or they had changed their minds and decided to send him back to France.

Now, though - now Walter is stepping off the train, all faded khaki and dark hair. Una stands back with her father and Rosemary, Bruce clinging to her skirt, as the Blythes embrace the first of their sons to return - and God willing, not the only one.

"He looks - " Rosemary starts, but then she falls silent. John Meredith silently touches her arm.

The Blythes let him go and Walter comes over, a bit unsteadily. He looks - Una finds that she doesn't know the right words, either. He is still recognizably Walter, in the same way an adult is similar to a childhood picture. Perhaps he is still the same height. But how thin he is! Walter had never seemed to take up as much space as Jem or Shirley - when people noticed Shirley at all, that is - but he had never been _spare_ , not the way he is now. And is that gray in his hair?

The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and Una can see skin, bright pink and stretched tight. On his left side, it creeps up onto his neck, almost to his jaw. She swallows. She'd heard what had happened to him, but _knowing_ is different from _seeing_. She wonders if it still hurts him very much.

It's her turn, now. She steps forward, wondering what to do: take his hand? Kiss his cheek? Kiss his mouth, the way he had her before he left? But no, that was only the kiss of a friend, and - he hadn't thought he'd return, anyway. She settles for extending a hand. He clasps it in his own, just for a moment. The tips of his fingers are rough with calluses - Walter, who had always been so gentle.

"I'm glad you're back," she says - it is all she can think of to say. He says nothing, only nods. She peers up into his eyes and a quiet shock passes through her. Walter's eyes have always made her shiver, not unpleasantly, but this - this is not the same. There's something in his eyes, something empty. _What has happened to you, Walter?_

She wants to ask but she cannot - not here and maybe not ever. It doesn't matter, anyway, for Bruce has interrupted with his chatter. His says one of his silly, dear, childlike things and they all laugh. Then he asks about Jem and something shifts in Walter's face. Una sees it, and so does her father, for he quickly steps in and tells Bruce that he still has to finish his schoolwork.

Una looks back as they walk away, but Walter is not looking at her. Nor is he looking at anyone else - he is standing still as his family bustles around him, eyes staring into the distance at something they cannot see.

Una shivers, this time with trepidation, and turns to walk home.

* * *

_Dear Una,_

_I'm still settling in here, but I thought I ought to let you know how I'm doing - I miss you terribly and writing you is the closest I guess I'll be able to get to talking to you until this war is over. I've been rooming with five(!) other girls, and more to come, and sometimes I roll over in the night and think it's you in the bed across from me. Lillian - for that is her actual name - is getting very tired of being called "Una," I'm sure._

_I hope you're not working too hard. I know we should all do their part, but sometimes I think you do your part and all of ours, as well. Or perhaps I'm worrying too much - big sisterly habits die hard, I suppose. I always forget that you're twenty now. So I'll stop nagging - I know it drove me insane when Jerry did it, and now here I am!_

_It's easy to be cheerful right now, but Una, I am worried. Sometimes it's worse being over here. It was bad enough worrying about all the boys - men - at home, but now - it's worse knowing you_ could _go to them - just take a boat and then_ walk _to where they are, but not being able to. At least in Canada there was the excuse of an ocean between us._

_I'm sorry I'm so maudlin, dear. Oh - that's a Walter-ism, isn't it? I must have picked it up from one of his letters. How is he? It's so odd, he used to write in such a way that you could almost feel him talking to you, and now I stare at his letters and wonder what he's trying to say. But he sounds like he's getting better. I'm sure you know more than I do._

_But never mind that. I'm sure things are all right. I'm trying to be nice and cheerful, but I'm all run down from nursing and studying and examining. I start the day off in as good a mood as I can, and by the time I have time to write, I'm as grouchy and pessimistic as any Sophia Crawford. I wish I were more like you, Una - but then, if I were you, you would be me, and I certainly wouldn't wish that on anyone!_

_There, I think that was a less grumpy note to end on. I wish I didn't have to end this at all, but early-to-bed and early-to-rise is the way around here. I'm seeing my first real patients tomorrow and Una, I'm scared to death. But I'm sure they're scared too, so we'll just be scared together, and it will all work out fine. Give my love to Father and Rosemary and Bruce, and give Stripey a hug from me too._

_Love,_  
 _Faith_ _  
_

* * *

"Una?"

Una blinks, the world settling back into focus around her. Rosemary is looking at her from across the breakfast table, half-expectant, half-concerned.

"I'm sorry," she says, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. This is not the first time someone has had to call her back to Earth since - _oh, you may as well admit it_ \- since Walter returned. She only hopes no one has made the connection.

"It's all right," Rosemary says gently. "I was asking if you would pass the butter."

"Oh!" Una gives her a small, guilty smile and hands over the dish. "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I just - I don't know where my head is, lately."

Her stepmother only smiles. "Or your stomach," she says. "You've hardly eaten."

Una frowns and looks down at her plate - it's barely been touched. She hadn't even noticed.

"I don't have much of an appetite, I suppose," she murmurs. "In fact - may I be excused? I'll take any dishes you're finished with."

Rosemary looks at her as though she's trying to decipher something, and Una quickly escapes to the kitchen with an armload of plates and silverware. She wonders how long she can hide behind her chores and her books before someone confronts her. For she _has_ been distracted, she knows. It has been a week since Walter returned, and sometimes Una wonders if she hasn't just imagined it - if she'll go to Ingleside and find the house empty of its men, that it's all been a hallucination and Walter really is still back in France.

She hasn't visited, either, though she's not sure why. It would be so simple to drop by to talk with Rilla, bring Mrs. Blythe flowers from the manse garden, knit something for Jims. But Una doesn't want to make excuses, not anymore, and not with Walter.

 _It doesn't matter, anyway_ , she tries to convince herself as she scrubs a plate with somewhat unnecessary enthusiasm. She has seen Walter only once since he came back, in church. He sat there with his face impassive, and the Blythes left quickly afterwards, Rilla walking close to Walter, as though she must protect him. She probably does - the rest of the Glen stared and whispered, and Una hears them murmur about him - his silence, his reluctance to leave the house - all the time. Some of them mean to be kind, she knows, but she also knows that they would hurt him, somehow.

Faith's last letter had mentioned him writing her, but he had never written Una back, and nobody in the Glen has spoken to him. And - now that Una thinks about it, he had not even said a word to her at the train station. This stings, more than Una wants it to. They had exchanged letters when he went to Redmond and when he went to the front, letters that spoke of deeper things than the two of them had ever discussed before. And she had thought - she had thought - well. Perhaps it had only been a foolish girl's dream, as so many of Una's have been. She is twenty years old now, too old, she thinks, for wishing and wanting. If Walter doesn't care for her, then - then that is that, and that is all.

She is so immersed in making her new resolution that she doesn't notice the unusual vim she's been washing a knife with. It is just a butter knife, but when it slips, it manages to slice the surface of her palm. For a moment she only stares in surprise, then tiny beads of blood begin to well up and she squeaks and rushes to bandage it.

 _This is ridiculous_ , she decides later, as she tries to unbutton her dress with only one hand. What will it be next? Will she slip and fall into the stream, lost in thoughts of Walter Blythe? Step into the street without noticing that an automobile is coming? She cannot keep thinking of him like this, so often.

It is only that he is so close now, closer than he's been since they were children - not away at Queen's, not in Lowbridge or Kingsport - and everything is so different. _Maybe this time, maybe now_.

Or maybe she is pinning all her hopes to a feeling he may never return. He is not the same Walter that had left for the front two years ago, that much is obvious.

Una manages to maneuver her way out of her dress and into her nightgown, pulls her hair loose from its braid, and flicks off the light. She curls under the covers and prays that if - when - she sleeps, she won't dream of gray eyes and poetry.


	4. wounds without words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Ojos de cielo" by El Sueño de Morfeo.

_Walter,_

_Things are holding up pretty well here. I had a short leave a while ago and went to see London - you know, I went back to all the places I visited with Mother and Dad and Persis so long ago, and somehow - they're not anything like they used to be. I wondered if maybe they'd changed it all - but it's me, Walt. I guess I'd been thinking that once I'm away, everything - including myself - would just snap back like nothing's happened._

_It's a bit of a relief to write to someone who knows how it is. I love my parents and Persis - and all the chums I've been writing to back home - but it's hard to make it all sound like an adventure. At best, it's tedium - we've nearly worn the cards out from playing so many games - and I'm pretty sure one of the men in my regiment is a cheat - and at worst…well, you know._

_Though I know how annoying it is to be repeatedly asked about an injury, I'm afraid I have to pose the question: how's the leg? If it makes you feel any better, I went and got myself cut across the face the other day. It looks to be shaping up into a nice little scar - if only it had a more dashing origin. I'm sure people will be enthralled with my tale of tripping over a sandbag and landing facedown._

_Wish I could write more, but there's early rising to do tomorrow. I've written to most of them myself, but do say 'hi' to everyone at Ingleside from me._

_Ken_

* * *

_Dear Walter,_

_I'm so glad to hear from you. I was worried, you know, when you didn't write back so quickly. But then - you're busy. We're all busy now, I guess. I left a letter from Faith Meredith for almost a month before I remembered to reply! Cutting "vermin shirts" (or "cootie sarks," as Rilla wrote to me - Walter, are we getting old? I'm not scandalized, exactly, but I did think it strange language for a sixteen-year-old girl to use. Then I realized that's the kind of thing Susan - or heaven forbid, Mrs. Sophia Crawford - would say and I promptly set about accepting Rilla's slang) distracts one more than you'd expect._

_Redmond isn't the same without you. Mother told me not to write to you about university yet, but I can't keep secrets from you. Nan and I've been having to drop at least one class every term to make time for the Red Cross, and I don't expect we'll graduate anytime soon. But that's all right, isn't it? You can come back - when you're ready - and we'll study together. It's nice to think about such hopeful things - "when you come back," "when the war is over." It's all that really keeps me going, sometimes._

_There! I promised myself I wouldn't get morbid - Nan says I'm brooding as much as you ever did - and here I am. I'm sorry. To talk of happier topics: it's almost summer, and I intend to come back to see you, even if it's just for a little while - I'd stay the whole vacation, but the Red Cross is always so shorthanded. Or - if it's not too strenuous, do come to Kingsport. Redmond's not quite the same, but you could visit me and Nan and see some of our friends. Alice Parker's been missing you, you know. But - I don't want to make you feel obligated. It's an awful feeling, isn't it? Sometimes I think I can't even remember what it felt like to have a moment to myself. To quote Nan, just this week: "I think the only time that truly belongs to me anymore is the two minutes when I wake up and haven't remembered all of my obligations yet!"_

_This letter is dreadfully scattered. If it were an essay, I'm sure my English professor would tear it up for being so unfocused. But surely my aspiring English professor brother will be more lenient?_

_There's not much else to tell you, I'm afraid. It's the same sort of schedule, every day - wake up, go to class, meet with the Red Cross, more class, more meetings, homework and Red Cross work, and then I collapse into bed wondering why I ever thought I'd enjoy college! But there, I'm glad to be here and I'm glad to be doing my part._

_It's good to hear that you're doing better. I'm sure Mother and Susan are spoiling you beyond belief. And poor Jims has probably been abandoned since you came home (only joking! Don't tell Rilla, for I'm sure she'd be horribly indignant that I even suggested such a thing - she takes her maternal duties very seriously). I'll write more when I have time. And Walter - do remember that you can tell me anything._

_All my love,_  
 _Di_ _  
_

* * *

In the dream, the commanding officer gives the order to go over the top, and they obey, as they always do - as they always must. Walter offers to lead the charge, because he has to be brave, he has a medal that says so, and the other men look at him with trust - some with the trust that he will stand by them, do his duty with honor; others with the trust that he will take a bullet so they won't have to.

And over the top they go, rushing towards the opposing lines, towards the guns pointed directly at them, while the officer who gave the order watches in safety. And then suddenly they are not the men from his regiment, they are Macdonald and Burrows from the hospital, and then they are Jem and Jerry and Carl and Ken and Shirley somewhere up above -

Walter wakes up, heart pounding and drenched in sweat, before the dream can progress any further, but it does not matter, for he is already filled with the dread of certainty that everyone he cares about is gone.

He slumps back on his pillow and stares at the familiar crack in the ceiling. (He used to think it looked like a bird, but now he's quite certain it looks like a turtle - what on earth had he been thinking?) His heartbeat is slowing, returning to its regular rhythm, as the dream - nightmare - ebbs away. He inhales, exhales, practicing the breathing exercises they had taught him in the hospital. "Helps keep the memories away," the doctor explained. Walter's not sure if that's true, but it does give him something to focus on. _Breathe in, breathe out._

He rolls over to look out the window - he had always loved the view from his room. During nights when he was afraid or worried, the sight of the island stretched out below had always soothed his soul, reminded him that the world was still beautiful for all his fears. The moon hovers pale and full over the groves and dells. Is it his imagination, or does the man-in-the-moon look rather sorrowful tonight? This same moon that hangs over the Flanders trenches, over its graves. Although perhaps it's eye level with Shirley, which is the only comforting thought Walter has.

Eventually he calms, but still he cannot sleep.

* * *

"Amy MacAllister and I are going up the Harbour Head road to canvass today," Rilla says at breakfast. She smiles apologetically. "I'm sorry, Walter."

Walter only shrugs. Rilla's absence will be disquieting - he's become used to having her around, ready to chatter when he needs to be distracted, and prepared with quiet sympathy when he doesn't. At times, he finds himself doing double-takes, as if he cannot recognize the poised, empathetic creature wearing vain little Rilla's clothes.

"I think I'll be back by dinnertime," Rilla assures him, as though she'd read his mind. "We don't have to go up the whole road, but we may, since Olive Kirk's doing the main road and we'll have to make up all the houses she won't go to. She can't go more than two hours without eating - "

And in some ways, Rilla has not grown up at all.

"Rilla," Mother warns.

"It's true!" Rilla protests. "We had _such_ a fight over eats - but never mind that. It's not so bad, I suppose. People are fonder of the MacAllisters than of the Kirks anyway, so Amy is bound to get more donations."

"And what will you be doing with the funds, sister mine?" Walter asks. "Getting up another concert?"

"No," Dad says with a good-natured groan. "Nothing turned my hair so gray as watching you prepare for that concert, Rilla."

"We're buying more material to sew into coo - vermin shirts," Rilla says, shooting a glance at their parents. "And socks, too. I'm _almost_ good at it now."

"You'd be even better at it if you remembered that socks have heels," Mother says, her eyes dancing.

"I do remember! Half the time, at least."

* * *

Walter walks Rilla to the door and settles onto the swing on the veranda. He has his notebook with him, full of short verses about Canadian springtime and the sweet return home - lines written and then forgotten; he can't seem to truly string them together.

He's sat here a million times before, but suddenly the view is completely new to him - the winding trail to Rainbow Valley, the creek and the maple grove, the dual spires of the Methodist and Presbyterian churches peeking through the trees. He can smell the clean damp, the world washed anew by the recent rain. He inhales and the air is cold in his lungs.

"What will you do today?" Rilla asks, turning before she goes down the steps.

Walter shrugs. "Read, I suppose. I'd try to help Susan, but you know she doesn't trust me in her kitchen."

Rilla looks uncertain. "Is that all? You could - spend time with Mother, or - "

"Rilla," he says, gently. He knows how he must look to everyone: wandering the house all day, helping Susan with the dishes till she shoos him out of the kitchen. Mother keeps callers away - he doesn't want to speak to anyone. Not yet. He wants to be busy, he wants to rest - wants to talk and reconnect, wants to shrink away inside himself, inside his memories, and never come out. He's not sure what he wants. But there's nothing she can do, and it's best she knows it.

Rilla senses his silent rebuke and flinches almost imperceptibly, but then she smiles and pats his arm. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Walter smiles - a small, twisted thing, but a smile nonetheless. "You don't have to worry about me, Rilla-my-Rilla."

She gives him her own half-smile back. "Yes, I do."

* * *

"Well, how was canvassing? Did anyone attack you for _daring_ to ask for money?" Dr. Blythe jokes that evening. For once, he'd had no calls, no emergencies to attend to, and they are all gathered 'round in the living room, Gog and Magog holding court over them.

Anne laughs. "Gilbert, do you remember how we used to go out asking for subscriptions for the AVIS? You'd think we were asking them for their entire life savings, at times. I hope," she says to Rilla, "you had more luck."

"And better results," Gilbert adds. "Lest we forget a certain town hall - "

"Oh, Gil, you're awful!"

Walter's face twists into a small smile. He and Rilla are leaning together on the sofa, she reading her newest letter from Ken Ford - although Walter is the only one privy to _that_ detail. Then again, it may be obvious - certainly Carl Meredith's letters don't make Rilla blush quite so much. Walter trusts that his best friend's _intentions_ are good - if not pure - and so doesn't bother asking what's in the letter. Still, the bright spots of red on Rilla's cheeks make him feel distinctly protective.

"I'm sure it was fine," he offers.

Rilla sniffs indelicately. "It was _not_ ," she says. "Irene Howard and Olive Kirk did the Upper Glen road, and they are _always_ trying to shirk their share. They should give _them_ a white feather - if there ever were slackers - "

Rilla's rant is cut off prematurely by Susan, who bustles in with a drawn face.

"A wire came for the Crawfords over-harbor," she says, sitting down and knitting with a vengeance. "Their son is in the hands of the Huns now."

Walter winces. He hates that word, _Huns_. He cannot see them the way the rest of the Glen seems to, as enemies without faces. All he can see, all he can remember, are the men he faced on the battlefield, men his own age, white to the lips with fear.

None of them had wanted this.

"And who knows what will happen to him in their clutches," Susan is continuing. "Civilized people they are not, and that you may tie to - "

"I daresay the Germans have contributed just as much to civilization as the British Empire," Gilbert says, exchanging a mirthful look with Anne.

Susan sniffs. " _Perhaps_ ," she says. "But I do not set my expectations for their humanity very high, Dr. Blythe. What they did to those Belgian babies and now to our men at the front - my bones ached last night and made it hard to get to sleep, so I weighted the Kaiser down with stones and made him stand in the high tide, and _that_ was as good as any lullaby - "

She continues to talk, but a strange buzzing has started in Walter's ears, a strange anger coiling in his chest. The sharpness of his emotions surprises him, when everything he has felt has been so dulled. _What does Susan know of death?_ Would she be glad, he wonders, to know what he's done? 

"God," he says. Susan's head snaps up, alarmed, and Walter is glad - glad to alarm and scandalize Susan, shock her with his behavior, have his revenge. "God, _stop_."

Rilla pulls away from him and gasps quietly. They are all staring at him. Walter cannot bear their looks, but he cannot bear their talk, either. They cannot know. They will never know. He wishes he could explain, but for once, words have failed him.

"Walter - " Mother starts.

He shakes his head. " _Don't._ " Shame at his outburst mingles with his anger and he suddenly cannot be here with them anymore. "I'm going to sleep."

His leg aches by the time he makes it up the stairs unassisted, and he falls into bed, waiting for the nightmares that he can never tell them about.


	5. before it burns me numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Nothing Without You" by Vienna Teng.

April opens with rain and by the second week, it seems to have announced its intentions to close with it, too.

"April showers bring May flowers," Bruce sings. "Will Walter bring Mrs. Blythe the first mayflowers? I'll do it if he can't."

Rosemary smiles at her son's thoughtfulness. "May's still a while off, yet," she says. "But I'm sure Mrs. Blythe would appreciate it."

"Do _you_ know, Una?" Bruce asks. "Could you ask him?"

Una, who has been working on the mending, nearly stabs herself with the needle. She almost laughs. Her hand has just healed, and now she is going to injure it again. _Stupid girl._

"If I see him," she promises. That seems good enough for Bruce, who wanders away to go play with Stripey. Rosemary, though, has been looking at her, and moves to sit closer to her.

"You haven't been up to see Walter yet?" she asks.

Una looks down at her hands. "It's only been two weeks. And I've been busy," she says. It is not - entirely - a lie. She _is_ busy, knitting and sewing for the Junior Reds, preparing lessons for the Clow girls, running around after Bruce. But neither is it completely honest. In truth, Una is scared. Scared that if she sees him, she'll reveal herself, her feelings - scared that her selfishness will only increase the distance she saw in his eyes that day at the train station.

Scared that she cares too much for someone who won't - maybe even can't - care for her in return.

Rosemary tilts her head, but allows the explanation. "You're working so hard," she observes.

Una only shrugs. Perhaps she is, but hasn't she always? She had never been like her siblings, going out to meet friends every evening. She spent her free time reading, or practicing piano, doing odd chores, trying to make life easier for everyone.

"It's all right," she tells her.

"Una," Rosemary starts, her hand coming up to cup Una's face. "Don't - don't let this war take you, too."

"It's not," Una says, and Rosemary just shakes her head, eyes sad.

* * *

The telegram comes the next day.

"Una," her father calls up the stairs, his voice strangled. "Could you come here, for a minute?"

Una had been reading, an old book that she had read hundreds of times before. It only takes her a minute to close it - she doesn't mark her page - and hurry down the stairs. "What's wrong?" She doesn't know how she knows that something is amiss, but she does.

"It's Jerry," John Meredith says. "He's been wounded."

Something in Una's chest relaxes - she had half-expected to hear the other, more horrible option. Then she hates herself for her relief. Wounded is not much better.

"Where?" she asks, wondering. Is he like Walter now, with a limp, skin forever marked by burns? And she's heard of some of the men from over-harbor, limbs missing, eyes blinded by gas. And the silence - none of the men talk as much as they used to. Walter had been quiet by nature, but Jerry - he had always been strong, always quick with a quip or an answer. It seems impossible.

"Shot in the back," her father says. His face is drawn. "They don't - it's too early to say what - effects - " He cannot finish the sentence. Rosemary has one of his hands clasped between hers, and her face too is pale with sorrow.

"They don't know - " Una starts, and her father shakes his head.

She doesn't say anything. What is there to say? She only walks to her father and embraces him. It is not something she does often - he had been so distant from all of them for so long, and she had been too shy to seek affection from him. But his arms go around her in return, then Rosemary slips into their embrace, the three of them holding each other in their grief and worry.

* * *

"Will Jerry be all right?"

Una looks up from the mending to see Bruce staring at her, eyes wide with curiosity.

"We hope so," she says, trying to smile at him. _Are my siblings and I cursed?_ she wonders. They had been so young when Mother died, had to grow up so fast - Jerry trying to take Father's place at the age of nine, Faith having to help Una with her clothes and plait Una's hair though she could barely do her own. And now Bruce may have to learn those same painful lessons at the age of eight. _It's not fair._

"But will he?" Bruce persists.

She sighs, puts the mending aside, and pulls her little brother onto her lap. He is getting too big, now, legs hanging over hers, feet nearly touching the floor. But he will need this comfort.

"We don't know," she admits. "But we're all praying for him - you are praying, aren't you?"

"Every night," he says, solemnly.

She gives him a quick squeeze. "And God is listening." _But He hadn't listened when we prayed for Mother_ \- she smothers the thought quickly.

He looks at her, so serious with his thick, dark brows - like hers and like Jerry's - straight above his eyes. Too serious for someone so young. "What if He doesn't?"

Una tries to be cheerful. "Bruce, did you know that everyone in the Glen is praying for Jerry? I'm sure He couldn't ignore us if He tried. Uncle Norman is praying, and you know Uncle Norman can get anyone's attention."

Bruce smiles at this and kicks his legs happily - Una tries to mask her wince when his heels whack directly into the knob of her ankle.

"I believe you," he tells her, and she feels the creeping sensation of guilt.

* * *

"I nearly bawled when I heard about Jerry," Mary Vance says frankly. "Gee, I think about how we'd play together in the Rainbow Valley days - it doesn't seem right that he's been wounded. Then again," she adds, "nothing about this war seems right."

They're sitting near the bridge that connects Four Winds and the Glen - meeting each other at the half point. That has always been their way.

"Thank you," Una says quietly.

Mary bumps their shoulders together. "Don't be so quiet," she says. "I can't stand to see you sad. He'll pull through all right, I know it. Jerry's never let a thing get him down."

"I hope so," Una murmurs.

"I bet Nan Blythe is crazy. Remember how we used to fight, me and her?"

Una hums her assent and Mary sighs. "Sometimes I think I'd ruther go back to those days, and fight with her day in and day out, as long as we were all back together."

"Oh, Mary," Una says. Mary is rarely soft, and only around Una. She slips her arm through her friend's and rests her head briefly on her shoulder.

It is a testament to Mary's soft spot for Una that she lets her.

* * *

A few days later, she receives a 'phone call from Rilla, asking if she'd like to spend the day together. Una is a bit surprised that the youngest Blythe girl wants to pass time with _her_ , but agrees. They meet in the village and walk to the train station - Rilla expresses a desire to go to town and 'get away' for a bit, and Una empathizes. She resists the urge to ask about Walter.

"We're sorry about Jerry," Rilla says as they wait for the train. "Nan 'phoned the day she found out, to talk to mother. I don't think they really talked - she just cried."

Una nods. She _hadn't_ cried - couldn't find the energy for it. At night, she had laid in bed, wondering if he would be all right, wondering what would happen if he wasn't. She had tried, over and over again, to picture her world without her older brother in it, and all she could feel was an emptiness.

"Are _you_ all right, Una?"

Una blinks, looks at Rilla. The youngest Blythe girl has grown, is no longer as flighty or selfish as she had been, but the depth of her perception still startles Una. Rilla Blythe knows more than she lets on, this she has discovered.

"Yes," she says. "It's just - everything. You know."

Rilla murmurs an agreement, though it's drowned out by the arrival of the train. The ride to town is quiet, the two girls looking out the window as the countryside whips by.

"I wonder if this is what flying is like, for Shirley," Rilla says.

"I think flying is better," Una says. Rilla nods, and then they are silent.

Una does not go to town often, but somehow she recalls it being very different. It is as busy as ever, but she notices that most of the people in the streets are children, women, and older men. It's not as noticeable in the Glen, she thinks, where they've always been used to the young men being away, at school or teaching. But here - it's glaring. Recruitment posters are everywhere - some of them featuring a mustached gentleman looking very gallant, urging men to join up and prove themselves, others featuring wide-eyed ingenues staring vulnerably out at the viewer: _won't you fight for me?_ Una suppresses a shudder. Somehow she's reminded of the Greek sirens, luring sailors to the rocks with their song.

Rilla does not seem to have a destination in mind, and they wander the streets, looking in shop windows.

"Do you want to buy a new hat?" Una teases - kindly - as they pass the milliner's. Rilla gives a rueful laugh.

"I _do_ need a new one, don't I?" she asks. "Even Mother said she wouldn't mind me giving it up. But I'm sticking to my mutton - oh, that's not right, is it?"

"I think it's 'return to my mutton.' And 'stick to my guns.'"

They both go silent at the mention of guns, for a moment, before Rilla breaks it with a little sigh.

"Oh, look at that blue hat! It would just match your eyes, Una."

Una doesn't say anything, merely marches Rilla past the shop. She doesn't need a new hat, and she doesn't think she wants one, anyway. She thinks of people noticing her and her choice in hats and her soul quails within her.

They end up at the ice cream shop - it is still a bit too cool for ice cream, but Rilla insists, and Una has to admit to a secret weakness for it.

"Una," Rilla says, when they're almost done eating, "I wanted to ask you something."

An odd sense of anticipation curls around Una's heart. "Of course," she says.

"You haven't come by to see Walter," Rilla says.

Has everyone noticed?

"I thought - I thought perhaps you didn't want visitors," Una says lamely.

Rilla gives a small laugh. "Oh, Una, that didn't mean _you_ \- or your family. Although," she adds, "I don't think Norman Douglas would be too - beneficial, at the moment."

Una allows herself a small smile, "No," she says. "But he's busy - between the farm and browbeating everyone who doesn't support the war into submission - _we_ barely see him nowadays."

"Anyway," Rilla says, "I was hoping you'd visit."

Una blinks. "Me? Why?"

Rilla shrugs. "I think - I don't mean to pry, but he's told me about your letters - you've always known how to talk to him, Una."

Something in her tone is worrying. "Is Walter all right?"

Rilla bites her lip, swirling her spoon in the melted remains of her ice cream. "I - I don't know. He's not - there's nothing wrong, but - he's just so…quiet. Walter was _never_ quiet - or not the way he is now. I don't know," she says, softer. "He's so - unreachable, now. And a few nights ago - Susan said something, and he got upset. He said - some things. I don't know what to do for him, Una."

"You can't think that I do," Una says quietly.

"No," Rilla says slowly. "I don't think - anyone - does. But you're - you're so patient. You could just - come by every now and then. We'll have lunch and play games. Nan and Di are coming home soon. Please?"

A nervous, excited feeling flares in Una's chest for a moment. She tries to ignore it. If Rilla fears for Walter, then there must be something wrong - something bigger and more important than Una's girlish emotions.

Still, she thinks of seeing him, talking to him, and then thinks of spending time at home, with Father and Rosemary waiting every day for word about Jerry, little Bruce asking questions that she cannot answer. She knows what she's going to say .

"All right."


	6. with each passing day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Eric's Song" by Vienna Teng.

The next few days pass quietly. They all tiptoe around him, watching him like an explosive about to go off - but he isn't going to. ( _Duds_ , they'd called them, in the trenches.) Dad constantly asks about his scars, his leg, as though he thinks he'll find something that all the other doctors hadn't. Or perhaps he thinks he can fix Walter from the outside in, fix everything with his capable doctor's hands, as he always has. But this isn't typhoid fever or burns from the brush fire. These scars are within.

Mother hovers, almost nervously - Mother who is never nervous around her children, but then, they had always been so _good_ before. She asks how he is, constantly, but all Walter can do is murmur that he's fine, he's fine. Susan, too, doesn't seem to know what to say to him anymore.

Only Rilla still treats him the same, but she slips out of the house more often, down to Rainbow Valley or over to a friend's house. Walter realizes that he is no longer the confidant of her sometimes silly but always earnest confessions - it brings an odd, dull pang.

When the newspaper and the mail come, every day like a clockwork, no one says a word. Walter sometimes catches them whispering, but they see him come in and quickly switch the topic to something ridiculous and asinine. As if he really believes that they were so intensely discussing Carter Flagg raising butter prices by five cents.

He is in the kitchen one morning, after everyone has gone, staring out the window - the sun is out today, perhaps it's out "somewhere in France" as well, the mud will be gone and soon it will just be dirt, unpleasant but easy enough to brush off, won't suck men down into it like an anonymous grave, they can't even pull the bodies out to identify them -

"Walter?"

Rilla sits down next to him, Jims in her lap. Walter shakes his head, tries to clear it. The war baby beams and makes a grab for Walter's gray hairs, stark against the black. Walter has to smile.

Rilla takes this as a good sign, because she begins to speak. "Walter, please tell me what's wrong."

Walter starts. He hadn't been expecting this - not from Rilla, anyway. And he _can't_ tell her, can't tell his sister all that he's seen - she is his youngest sister, the baby of the family - it doesn't matter how much she grows, he'll always need to protect her, and he wants to protect her from this.

"I wish I could, Rilla-my-Rilla," he says gently.

She looks at him with her large, girlish eyes, brimming with sympathy and hope. "Why not?" she asks. "I don't understand - your letters - you seemed so -" she bites her lip. "You seemed so…certain. 'Keep faith.' You told us that. And now - "

"I know," he says. "I thought - " he inhales. "Things were different, then, little sister. Before I saw what war really does." He looks down at his hands, and Rilla reaches over and takes one in her own. "I should have died over there."

" _No_ ," Rilla says. She squeezes his hand, hard. "You had to come back to us. You had to come back and - and write more poetry and show us all the beautiful things in Rainbow Valley and not call me 'Spider' - oh, Walter, what we would have done if you had died! Please don't say things like that."

Walter smiles at her, then gently lets go of her hand, pressing it back into her lap. "I knew it would never be an adventure like Jem thought, but I really did think - that I could make a difference there. If I had died, perhaps it would be so. But surviving - when so many I knew didn't. Living with this - knowing I've killed men - this is what it's like for me, Rilla-my-Rilla."

Her eyes are wide. "You had to," she says, and he knows she's trying so hard to understand. "The Germans - "

" - are just like us," he finishes, tiredly. He pushes back his chair and grabs his cane. "I'm sorry - I'm exhausted. I think I'll take a nap."

Rilla watches him go, clutching Jims to her chest.

* * *

Rilla has disappeared when he wakes up from his fitful sleep; Susan says that she's gone to town. She doesn't come back until nightfall, and even then she seems distracted.

The next day, he wakes up late. He blinks for a moment, staring at the bright sunshine streaming through the window - it must be almost noon. It is the first time that he hasn't woken up with the dawn, the way they had to - over there.

His body hurts most in the mornings; skin stiff and protesting as he stretches; leg aching. Perhaps it will always be so. _You can't change it_ , he reminds himself. Jem wouldn't try to - he would probably accept it in that easy way of his, as he has to everything that comes his way. Jerry, too, and Ken. Why can't he be more like them?

"There you are," Susan says, a bit brusquely, when he comes down to the living room. Walter had apologized, but there is still something fraught between them. _She doesn't know_ , he knows, but - he cannot forget her words. Perhaps he doesn't want to, wants to hold on to his anger.

Mother is there, and Rilla, and Una Meredith. Walter blinks. He hadn't been expecting to see her - hasn't seen her since he came back. She is sitting with Rilla, knitting - whatever it is they're knitting, as though such a thing is perfectly normal. He shakes his head. No, it's not Una that's out of place. It's him.

"Good morning, Walter," Mother says. "I think," she adds, standing, "that we should leave the young people alone. Susan?"

Susan gives them a sharp look, as though daring them to get into trouble the moment her back is turned, but she and Mother bustle off to the kitchen. Walter sits down carefully, feeling the muscles in his leg cramp and then relax.

Una puts her knitting down as soon as she sees him. Rilla doesn't - Walter recalls her determinedly telling Mother that she was _not_ giving up on the knitting - though she offers him a small smile. "You slept late."

He nods. "Sorry."

"No one's upset," Rilla says. "Mother thought it was better - you've been waking up so early."

"Habit," he says. At this, Una's eyes flick up to look at him.

"From - the army?" she asks. Her voice is so soft, he almost misses it.

He nods.

Rilla looks between them, then puts her knitting on the table.

"I'll go help Susan with lunch," she says. Una starts to get up, too, but Rilla stops her.

"No," she says. "I'm the host - host _ess_ \- you sit there and don't do a thing, Una Meredith."

Una looks like she wants to protest, but she acquiesces. Rilla bustles out, and then Walter is alone with her. He finds himself studying her, the way he hadn't at the train station. Has it really been two years since he's last seen her - really seen her?

Unlike Rilla, Una stopped growing long ago, still as slight at twenty as she was at fifteen. Her hair is still braided and pinned to her nape, as she has worn it since she became too old to plait it in two - somehow, Walter cannot imagine Una ever worrying over trends the way Nan, Di, and Rilla do.

She's sitting quietly, not quite looking at him, eyes fixed on the table between them. For a moment Walter feels contempt - is everyone in the Glen that afraid to look at him? They wouldn't have lasted a day in the trenches. Then he recalls that Una has always been like this.

"Well," he says.

Her eyes flick up again, and her mouth twists into a small smile. "We haven't seen you," she starts.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes automatically.

"No, don't be - " she stops, makes a noise that almost sounds like a laugh, if Una were to laugh. "I only meant - how are you?"

"I think I should be asking you that," he tells her. "I heard - I'm sorry about Jerry."

She only nods, looks down. Walter wants to tell her that it's for the best, he'll be kept out of the fighting while he recovers, but he's not sure if that will truly be a comfort. Perhaps it only seems that way to him, because of what he knows.

"It's been a while," she finally says.

"That's my fault," Walter says slowly. "I thought I'd see you earlier. That's why I didn't write."

She presses her lips together for a brief moment. "I did wonder," she admits. It's a bold statement, for Una. He feels a slight sensation of guilt - it flickers in his stomach and then dies like an unfed flame.

"Faith said she'd heard from you," she adds.

It occurs to Walter that Una probably thinks he'd ignored her for Faith, and the thought is more unpleasant than perhaps it should be. He hasn't thought of Faith - not the way he used to - since he left for the front. But then, Una never knew he thought about Faith at all.

"It's only that - I'm not very good company, these days," he says.

Una tilts her head at him, looks him in the eye for the first time since he's sat down. "I'm never very good company. So I suppose it's all right."

Walter nods, and they sit in silence for a moment. It is almost comfortable, but then.

A strange, sudden noise comes from the kitchen - loud and sharp, it sets Walter's ears buzzing and his heart racing. Because he knows that sound; it's the sound of the shells, and it's _too close_ , they should find cover, but it's too late - they should be dead - they would be dead if they were in the trenches. They are not, he realizes. He had forgotten, for a moment.

And Una is staring at him now, eyes wide and confused. Walter blinks, shakes his head to clear it, then realizes from the throbbing pain in his leg that he has done - something. Jumped, perhaps, or some other sudden movement.

"Sorry," he says.

"It's - don't be," Una says. "What - "

"Nothing," he says sharply. "Nothing."

She doesn't look as though she believes him - he knows she doesn't - but she lets it pass without mention. When Rilla comes back in with a little tray of sandwiches, Una merely moves over to let the younger girl sit without comment.

"Don't go in there," Rilla warns. "I broke a plate, and Susan is _scandalized_."

They chuckle at that, but Walter feels Una's eyes on him for the rest of her stay. She leaves shortly after they finish the sandwiches, murmuring something about Rosemary and piano lessons. It sounds like an excuse.

Rilla frowns as she watches Una leave. "Did something happen?" she asks.

Walter shrugs. "Nothing," he repeats.

* * *

Nan and Die come back from Kingsport a few days later. Una Meredith joins them at the train station, to Walter's surprise. Then he scolds himself: as though Una would avoid Nan and Di, her oldest friends, simply because of him. _Selfish_.

"Hello," she says when she sees him, in her quiet, Una-like way.

"Hello."

"About the other day - " she starts, but Walter shakes his head to stop her.

"I'd rather - not talk about it."

Una looks mildly surprised, but continues. "I only wanted to say - I didn't leave because of you. I really did have to help Rosemary. That's all."

Walter cannot think of what to say - he feels guilty for misjudging Una, who has never had anything but the best of intentions - as far as he knows. Thankfully, the train comes in and Nan and Di step off, diverting everyone's attention. Nan's face visibly relaxes when they tell her that Jerry is out of danger, but she is still silent all the way home. Di has to fill the space with chatter about Redmond and classes and the Red Cross. Una is coming back with them for dinner, and she smiles and nods at Di's anecdotes, but Walter can feel her eyes on him. It sends an odd shiver down his spine that he can't quite explain.

* * *

Susan fusses over Nan and Di as always. Nan is oddly subdued all throughout dinner, and she slips away when the dishes are cleared - to Rainbow Valley, Walter thinks. When she returns, her face is blotchy from crying - Nan, who rarely sheds a tear for fear of red eyes.

They're only staying a few days - it turns out the real reason for the visit is for Di to entreat Dad in person to allow her to become a VAD, like Faith.

"No," Dad says, without even missing a beat.

They are gathered around in a circle, seated on cushions, cards scattered between them. In truth, Walter is rather sick of cards - he can't count all the hands he played at the front. But he won't tell them that.

"Why not?" asks Di, trying to shuffle and losing control of the deck. Walter takes it from her; he's learned to shuffle almost expertly. "Faith is over there - she says it's good work - and it would help - " She darts a glance at Una, but the other girl offers no help.

"It's too dangerous, for one," Dad says. "England's not safe - if something happened to you - " He sighs, face drawn. "We've just gotten Walter back, Diana. We can't send you, too."

"But - "

"No," Dad repeats.

Una is looking between them, and quickly stands. "I think I should be heading back," she says apologetically. She inclines her head at the doctor. "Please tell Mrs. Blythe and Susan 'thank you' for the dinner."

Gilbert laughs. "You don't need to be so formal, Una." He winks. "I'll pass the message on."

Una moves towards the door and Gilbert jerks his head at Walter. Walter blinks, then realizes he should walk her. Has he forgotten everything about being normal? He scrambles to his feet, groping for his cane.

At the door, Una turns to him. "Walter," she starts. "Are you really alright?"

He looks away. "Goodnight, Una."

* * *

Di is on the sofa when he makes it back, curled up and looking pensive. There's something distinctly displeased about the set of her shoulders. She's not sulking - exactly - for Di despises sulking, Walter knows. But she's not happy, either. She looks up when she sees him come in, offers him a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

It's been a while, Walter thinks. Things between them had been - not quite the same, before he left. Di had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the war effort; Walter had shrunk from it. Their talks had been - strained, as they both tried to avoid the topic - but what else had there been to talk about? Some of their old comradeship had returned when he'd enlisted - they'd both been so proud, and so relieved that the wall between them was no longer there.

But now - now.

He offers her a hand, tries to remember what to say, how he used to comfort her. "Would a ramble through Rainbow Valley help?" He doesn't need to - never has needed to - ask if something is wrong.

She looks up at him, eyes bright, gives him a sheepish smile at having been caught in a mood. But she takes his hand and they go out to the moon-drenched valley.

"I haven't been out here, you know," Walter says. "Since I've come back."

Di peers at him. "Why not?"

He shrugs, the moonlight illuminating the small action. "The ground's too soft. Can't walk here," he says, a bit rougher than he intends to. "On my own."

"There's Rilla," Di says. "Or Mother and Dad."

"They're busy."

Di is silent, and Walter wonders if he's upset her, said something wrong, perhaps something selfish. He clears his throat. "Why do you want to go to Europe so badly, Di?"

She makes a frustrated sound, nearly stomping over a patch of grass. "It doesn't matter."

They never used to be this way, never used to have to coax answers from the other. "I think it does."

She sighs, her grip on his arm tightening. "I'm not doing enough. Not for the Red Cross, or Jem or Shirley - or Jerry or Carl." _Or you_. Somehow Walter hears it, though it goes unspoken. "I just - I just want to be there. Like you were."

Walter winces. _She doesn't know, she doesn't know._ And he can't tell her, can't strip away her dreams. The truth has already burned him. He can't let it happen to someone else.

"Mother and Dad already have two children 'over there'," he says, as gently as he can. "I would still be there, if it weren't for my leg."

"It's my decision," she says. "And I don't care what happens to me, if - oh!"

Walter's not sure what's happening, only that Di has tripped, her grip dragging him down. _Like before, like in the mud, if you fall off a plank, fall into a shell hole_ \- no, he can't let that happen, he's let it happen too many times.

"Walter!"

Di is picking herself up clumsily; Walter is still holding her arm.

"Ow," she says, and he blinks, realizes he has her in an iron grip, trying to save her from an illusion.

"Sorry," he says. "God - I'm sorry."

It's Di that blinks now at his oath, eyebrows knit in concern. Walter tries to ignore it, scramble back to the topic at hand.

"Perhaps you don't care," he says. "But Di - I've been there. It's not - you can't - " He doesn't know how to continue.

Di purses her lips. "Walter," she says. "What aren't you telling me?"

Walter stares straight ahead. His leg is beginning to ache from walking. They ought to sit down. "Things are different. I still haven't - gotten used to being back. I wouldn't want it to happen to you," he says. "That's all." It's not entirely a lie.

Di studies him. "We tell each other everything, Walter." She gives his arm a little shake. "You're Wordsworth and I'm Dorothy, remember?"

He laughs a little at their childish nicknames, when his literary ambitions were only fancies - he's a published poet now, though sometimes he forgets.

"Not this," he says. "Let's not worry about me, Di."

She tilts her head but lets it pass, as everyone has learned to do. _Choose your battles_ , as Mother sometimes said.

And Walter _had_ chosen.


	7. being brave

"It's too strange," Di says.

It's the day before Di and Nan are scheduled to go back to Kingsport, and they have come up to the manse, with Rilla in tow. It's still strange, Una thinks, to see Rilla sitting amongst them. The younger girl is her friend, of course, but she had never joined in the social doings of her siblings. But then, there's something levelheaded, something capable about Rilla nowadays. Nan and Di still have a habit of calling her "Baby," but sometimes they catch themselves and even look a bit guilty.

"What is?" Una asks, breaking a biscuit in half. She gives part to Nan, who claims to be too full from Susan's lunch to eat a whole one. Una can believe that. For her part, she's too tired - nervous, too - to really eat.

"Everything," Di sighs. "Home - the 'VAD thing' - the war. Even Rilla," she says, nudging Rilla with her foot.

Rilla scowls then smiles to show she's not really upset. "You get used to it," she says.

"I suppose I just expect home to be like a memory. Just like I remember it before - everything."

Una hums sympathetically, but doesn't say anything. She doesn't have much to compare these days to - oh, of course she recalls the idyllic slowness of 'auld lang syne', but the _feeling_ is much the same - the almost dangerous hope, the despair one tries to put to the back of their mind - and the waiting, always the waiting. Una has been waiting her whole life. That has not changed.

"And then there's Walter," Nan says. Di elbows her, but the words are already out. Una hates the way her heart beats a little harder every time his name comes up. He had been so distant, so - un-Walter-like at Ingleside the other day. She hadn't been able to reach him at all, and she will not let her unwanted feelings damage him any further.

Rilla shoots Una a look that the other two don't notice, and she shifts uncomfortably in her chair.

"We used to be so close," Di says, picking at something on her sleeve - Una suspects there's nothing to pick; Di only doesn't want to look at them. "He keeps saying that I can't understand." Rilla nods; the same must have happened to her.

"I don't imagine any of us can," Nan says softly. "Jerry's letters - he tells me things, sometimes, that I think Jem and Shirley want to protect me from. And he's seen - " she sighs. "I can't imagine what it must be like. I've never _seen_ anyone die. The only funeral I've been to is Aunt Marilla's."

"I suppose," Di says. She sighs. "It's never - we've never had something like this between us before. What about when the rest of them come back?"

"Oh, let's not think about that," Nan says. "It's too much. Walter is bad enough - I don't mean it like _that_ ," she says to Rilla, who has opened her mouth to defend her favorite brother. "I just - I think of everyone we knew coming back - like that - and it's overwhelming. We _can't_ know what it's like. What could we say?"

Una is not really listening. A sudden tightness has occurred in her chest. And she thinks, perhaps, that she may know what to do.

* * *

"I've been thinking," Bruce says.

Una wants to laugh - he looks so _serious_ \- but she would never do that to her little brother, so instead she fixes her best concerned expression on her face and kneels down to look him in the eye. "And what were you thinking?"

"Do you suppose," he says, "that _knowing_ you're bad is worse than - any other punishment?"

Una frowns. "You mean that…it's worse to know that you've done wrong, than to be punished?"

"No," Bruce says, widening his eyes at her like his meaning should have been obvious. "I mean that your punishment would be the knowing that you're bad. And you'd have to live with that forever."

Una bites her lip. She thinks of nights in her room, with Faith asleep, lying awake, thinking about all the things she's done wrong - the people she's hated, even for a moment, the little lies she's told. The feeling of guilt coiled in her stomach.

"I think," she says, "that punishment is supposed to make you think about what you've done, so you feel repentant - like you want to apologize," she explains, at Bruce's frown. "So if you already know you've been bad, then yes, that's like being punished."

"But that feeling goes away. Like when Father or Mother punish me, I feel bad, but then later I feel fine. If you were really bad, would you feel bad for your entire _life_?"

"We-e-e-ell," Una says slowly. "I suppose that's possible."

Bruce's brows are still knit in thought, but he wanders away with his arms swinging. Una watches him for a moment, wondering what on Earth has possessed her brother to ask such questions.

_If you were really bad, would you feel bad for your entire life?_

What would it mean to be _really bad_? Una wonders. What would you have to do? Kill someone? The way soldiers do? The way Jerry and Carl and Jem and Walter and Shirley have? Perhaps that's how Walter feels. How her brothers and her friends will feel, when they return.

Una knows the feeling, she thinks. Not that she has ever killed anyone - she has never killed so much as a fly. But she knows guilt, and the certainty that she is not as good as she should be - with her quiet resentments, her little lies, her weaknesses. And there are - other things she knows, too, things she's kept locked away in some part of her heart that always aches a bit, every day.

These thoughts preoccupy her all throughout dinner, worry at her as she cleans the dishes. She escapes to her room and sits on the bed for what seems like hours, half-undressed, with her hair falling out of its braid, thinking, _thinking_.

She could do this. She failed Rilla, the other day, unable to hold a conversation with Walter. But now - now, perhaps, she could fix it. Help him.

But _\- I could never tell him_ , she thinks. They have never been that close. She cannot suddenly open her soul to him, tell him all her secret hurts and harms. What if - what if she ends up burdening him further, weighting him down with her problems, like stones in a stream?

Or maybe it is her fear that is hurting him. She'll never know, will she, unless she tries? _Be brave,_ she thinks. Brave like Jerry and Carl at the front, like Faith in the hospitals. No more hiding. Not from anyone - not from Walter - not from herself.

She looks up at Ingleside, at the lights in the upstairs windows. One of them must be Walter's - she knows it is the one that looks out at Rainbow Valley. Perhaps he is lying in bed, too, thinking of something he cannot tell anyone else, the way she does, sometimes. She shivers.

And decides.


	8. dig up the bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Bones" by MS MR.

Nan and Di have to leave soon - they aren't really on break at all, and had only come home to see Walter and ask for Dad's permission about "the VAD thing," as it had become known in the Blythe household.

They depart on a gray, pale April morning. Everyone goes to the station to see them off, except Una - "She's teaching the Clow girls piano," Rosemary explains.

Walter takes his turns embracing his sisters. Nan lets go without comment, but Di holds him for a second, pulling back to search his eyes with her own.

"Write to me, all right?" she whispers.

"I will," he promises. His voice comes out hoarse.

When the train pulls away and they are gone, Rilla silently links her arm with his, the way he had with hers the night he enlisted.

"We didn't quarrel," he feels the need to say, when they're almost to the house and she still hasn't said a word.

She looks at him oddly. "I didn't think you had."

He doesn't meet her eyes, choosing to stare ahead. "Mother and Dad think we did." He pauses, not willing to say anything bad about one sister to the other. "I didn't want her to go to Europe."

Rilla shrugs. "Did you want Faith to go?"

Walter looks at her, startled. What does she mean by _that_? "Faith's not my sister."

"She's your friend."

"She didn't tell me until after she had already started training. And I was - " he shrugs, too. "There were so many things we didn't know, still."

Rilla looks like she wants to ask for more, but she sets her mouth and accepts what he will give her.

* * *

When they get home, Rilla slips away to give Jims his bath. Apparently the war-baby has been crying for her since she left - "He really _has_ gotten attached to you," Miss Oliver observes.

Walter shifts uncomfortably in the parlor, wondering what to do. He has no studies, no duties or obligations. Only his thoughts. He shivers. Perhaps he would do well to go to Redmond, after all. He goes to his room to fetch his notebook - it's getting easier to walk these days; he's less clumsy with his cane - and slips away to the veranda. Perhaps he can write some more poems and sell them to another magazine. He receives the odd circular every now and then, when his poem is reprinted or used in some propaganda poster. It could give him some sort of purpose until - he'll have to go back to Redmond eventually, although he doesn't know what for. He tries to picture himself as a professor of English - his old dream - and instead sees himself trembling while the students laugh.

But for now. _For now_ , he repeats to himself.

He settles onto the porch, lets his leg stretch. It aches less, or perhaps in a different way. Maybe he's becoming accustomed to being like this, for the rest of his life.

The rest of his life. He hadn't thought about it much in the trenches. He had felt it almost in his bones, that his was a sacrificial going, and he had accepted it. And perhaps his premonitions had been true, that he must die to truly be free. His soul had always felt too old for his body; there were times when he had been quite sure he could see things others couldn't.

But then - life is not a story, and even those who belong to another world must learn to live in this one.

He leans his head against the wall of the house and closes his eyes, lets the cool spring air wisp by his face. For a moment he is at peace, but then he finds his mind wandering, back to the trenches, back to the fighting. He wonders about the men in his regiment - how they are doing, if they are still alive. He wonders if it would be rude to write them - he supposes they didn't really even know each other, anyway, they had simply been thrown together by circumstance, country and city boys, poor and rich, some of them had to develop their calluses painfully and slowly while others came to the camp already scarred -and they must hate him, some of them, hate him for coming home while they remain, may never come back, maybe they don't remember him at all, just another soldier here one day and gone the next, gone to the hospitals or behind the lines or gone west, they're all just nameless and faceless anyway, cannon fodder, not like the officers who sit so safely, losses are only missteps and tactic mistakes to them. And Walter's always thought that there's some kind of balance in the world, that suffering is rewarded in the end, _the meek shall inherit the Earth_ , everything he's ever learned at his mother's knee and in the old white walls of the church - but he knows better now, you can fight and struggle and none of it will mean a damn thing in the end, you'll still end up skittled or a _coward_ , and who can even say which one is worse? Brave men with medals and scared men trembling with shock and fear, they both end up in the same place...

He is not aware that there is someone else present until a hand touches his shoulder. Instinctively, he flinches, and Una Meredith steps back, as though he is an animal and she has spooked him. Perhaps she has.

"I'm sorry," she says, hesitant. "Did I - scare you?"

The idea of quiet little Una scaring anyone is ridiculous, but Walter is ashamed to feel that his heartbeat picked up, that his hands are shaking just a little.

"No," he says. "Only a little startled. I do get - caught up in my thoughts, sometimes."

She gives him an odd, stiff little smile. "I know." She pauses, then steps forward, closer to him. "May I?"

He blinks then nods, and she carefully sits down next to him, tucking her skirt around her knees.

"How are you?" she asks. She's oddly fidgety, playing with the loose fabric around her knees, tugging the sleeves of her sweater tighter around herself. Or maybe she's always been this way and he's never noticed.

"All right," he says. "And yourself?"

"Fine."

There is a pause, awkward and heavy between them. Walter wonders if he should ask how her piano lessons are going - as though he knows the first thing about music - but then Una inhales deeply, audible even to him.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," she says. Her voice trembles, just a bit, near the end. Walter blinks. What on Earth could Una Meredith want to talk to him about? And she looks so strange, mouth set in a little line, so firmly that her lips turn white.

"Go ahead," he says. An odd sense of trepidation has started in his stomach. Perhaps she has bad news. Something her father wanted her to pass on. Perhaps they've figured out what Walter has done, and have sent Una here to tell him that he is damned alive.

_Oh, don't be dramatic._

"We're worried about you," Una says, the words fairly bursting from her. She pauses, ducks her head, and lifts a slightly more composed face back to Walter. "Di and Nan and Rilla. And I'm sure - everyone else."

Now Walter is vaguely annoyed. Does she think he doesn't know that?

"I don't - I know you have your reasons," she rushes on when he opens his mouth. "I only meant to ask - what's upsetting you - is it about the war?"

He is thrown by how bluntly she puts it, but he doesn't say anything. He can't tell her - his silence is a dam, and breaking it even for the slightest confession would bring forth the flood of all the others, all that he left behind in Europe and desperately wishes would _stay_ there.

"Are you ever going to talk about it?" The question is not harsh or impatient, only vaguely curious. Has Una ever been harsh with anyone? Walter used to admire that about her, he thinks, but now he finds it unnatural - horrible. He knows, now, everything that humans are capable of. Una, must be, too. Perhaps she only hides it better. Perhaps she's a liar, has been lying since they were children. He is suddenly stupidly, irrationally angry with her.

"It's nothing you want to hear."

Una tilts her head at him. "You don't know that."

"Don't I?" he says. "Your concerts and your speeches - the white feathers - your posters - that damn poem I wrote. Everyone wants to think - "

He's said too much, let the dam burst. He tries to bite back the flow, but Una does not look upset, or even shocked. Her face is as neutral as ever. Walter suddenly recalls their days together in Rainbow Valley, where she used to cry at the slightest provocation, lips set to trembling every time Mary Vance said a bad word. What has happened?

"It doesn't - " Una starts, presses her lips together. "It doesn't matter what I want to think. We want to help. Whatever - whatever it is - we'll listen. I'll listen."

She's not giving up, clearly. Walter remembers the odd resilience he'd glimpsed under all her sweet wistfulness, and wonders why she had to choose _now_ to use it. He cannot tell her anything that won't hurt her, won't hurt all of them. Their lives here - his life, before - are so innocent, so untouched. He can't ruin this for them. They could never understand, anyway.

"People died," he says, finally, not looking at her. "I didn't try to stop it." _I killed him horribly and I was glad._ That is it, that is all, under everything. Oh, he has a medal for saving a man, but how many had he killed? It's odd, he thinks, the compromises people are willing to make in their search for sense.

Una is still studying him, but her face - there's something odd there, something Walter cannot decipher. His words should have frightened her away from the topic, but they haven't. "You think we can't understand that." Her tone is strange, almost as though Walter has confirmed something for her.

"It's not just - that," he says slowly. "The things I've seen - Una, I don't want you - or _anyone_ \- to be able to understand. No one - should be - " He can't finish.

Una looks away, out at Rainbow Valley. She is silent for a while. "I haven't told anyone this before," she says, softly. "Not even Faith."

Walter looks at her - he and Una have shared confidences over the years, but never anything they hadn't told to someone else. But her eyes are serious, moreso than they usually are - there is nothing soft or wistful about them right now. He nods for her to go on.

"My mother was holding me when she died, you know," Una begins. She does not look at him. "Her last words were to my father, but she was holding _me._ " She stops for a moment, tugging at a thread on her sleeve, pulling it loose.

"And I felt her - when it happened. I remember how I couldn't feel her breathing or the beat of her heart. Everything just _stopped_ , and one moment she was there, and then she _wasn't_ \- Aunt Martha had to take me out of her arms because - she couldn't - let me go - herself - " Una's eyes are wide now, brimming with tears that she will not allow to spill over. She takes a deep breath before looking Walter in the eye.

"So you see," she says, "Death and I are rather old friends."

For once in his life, words have deserted Walter. He suddenly remembers Una the day he had met her - what _had_ she looked like? He shakes his head. As though people carried tragedy etched on their faces or their skin. It is within, isn't that one of the things he's been trying to make them all understand?

He'd always known about the Merediths' mother; Jerry and Faith had shared the story the day they had all met. But somehow he'd forgotten, thought the Merediths' lives to have been just as idyllic and innocent as that of him and his siblings. And all this time, they had known what he had had to learn.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Una merely shakes her head. "I only mean to say that - I've never been to war - but I do know. Not exactly - not everything - but a bit, at least."

Walter inhales, exhales. There is too much - where can he start? What can he tell her? Some of the horrors would be too much, even for her.

"The other day," he begins. "When Rilla broke that plate. It was - I was hearing the shells."


	9. a heart shouldn't beat so hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Untouchable" by Girls Aloud.

When she returns from Ingleside, Una finds that she is trembling. She makes her excuses to Rosemary, and sits on her bed for a long while, fist pressed to her stomach. She told Walter about her mother. Why had she done that?

She had wanted him to know, of course. Wanted him to know that she understands, in her own way. Help him.

But perhaps she had been selfish. Burdened him with her own tragedies, bound him to her with that knowledge. She gives a little shake of her head. What's done is done. It doesn't matter why she had done it.

And it's a relief, she finds. She had never told anyone about those awful, final moments with her mother - Father thinks she doesn't remember, but how can she not? Sometimes she thinks she can still feel her mother's arms locked around her, her embrace going cold. Nobody would have understood - until now. Maybe she'll tell Jerry and Carl, too, when they come back, when they've been as close to death as she has.

He hadn't told her everything, of course, and Una's not sure he ever will. What he had told her had come out in half-formed sentences, broken with pauses and stammers. Not like the way he had told them stories in Rainbow Valley.

And the things that she heard - that he'd seen. He hadn't tried to paint her a picture, and Una has never had the imagination of Nan or Walter - but she can _feel_. When she thinks of what Walter has gone through, she cannot suppress her shudder.

After she's collected herself, she goes back downstairs to help Rosemary with dinner. Una likes cooking, although not as much as baking. There's something comforting about its precision, the measuring of ingredients, the little hourglass she sets to make sure she doesn't burn the food.

She feels Rosemary's eyes on her the second she comes into the kitchen. She studiously ignores it.

"What are we making?" she asks.

Rosemary silently hands her the pamphlet of wartime recipes, and Una gets to work, peeling and cutting. They're silent for a while, the only noises being the _thunk_ of knives against the cutting board and the hiss of boiling water.

"You've been doing very well with the Clow girls," Rosemary says, out of the blue.

Una nearly cuts her hand - again - in surprise. "Really?"

Rosemary laughs gently. "Yes, _really_. Mrs. Clow says their playing at home is very nice. And they like you."

"Oh." Una stares down at the counter, feeling her face warm. She is unaccustomed to praise - to attention in general. Compliments have always made her nervous. She wants to ask for more - what do they like about her? Do they like the way she teaches? Do they think she's kind? Do they like the songs she gives them? But it feels like too much to ask, so she bites the words back. "They're good girls."

"So are you."

Una darts a quick look at her stepmother, but Rosemary is calmly mixing the sauce.

"You went to see the Blythes today, didn't you?"

Una nods, then remembers that Rosemary isn't looking at her. "Yes."

"Did you see Walter?"

"Yes."

Rosemary gives a small smile. "Good. I know it's hard, with the Blythe girls - and Faith - away. Mary Vance is rather far away now, and Rilla's so much younger than you."

Una bristles, though she's not sure at what - the implication, perhaps, that she has no other friends (although she doesn't). Or perhaps it's the comment about Rilla. "It's the same difference as between me and Walter." She pauses. "And Rilla's - nicer - than she used to be." It's not quite the right word - Rilla was never cruel - but Una doesn't know how else to put it.

"I suppose not," Rosemary muses. "I suppose I meant that she never spent much time with your little group, growing up. I'm glad one of your old playmates is back."

Una smiles a bit sheepishly. Rosemary always means well, is always kind to her. "It's not the same, but…" she trails off, uncertain of what she even means to say.

Rosemary picks up. "No, I suppose not. But I'm sure it's a relief." She tilts her head at Una. "I know what it's like to wait, you know."

Of course. Martin Crawford. Una must have heard the story a thousand times when they had first come to the Glen - one of the old legends of the small town. People had stopped repeating the tale so often after Rosemary had married her father, and Una had almost forgotten about it.

"I forgot," Una murmurs. She wonders briefly if Rosemary thinks - if Rosemary _knows_ \- that Una cares for Walter the same way she had cared for Martin Crawford.

Rosemary puts her spoon down and reaches over to brush Una's face with her hand. "I'm glad you - we - have him back. And that you have someone to talk to. I know Rilla and Mary Vance can sometimes be - " she crinkles her nose and lets the sentence hang.

Una smiles, though she feels a bit guilty at laughing at her friends. "I still have you."

Rosemary studies her. "As long as you know that."

* * *

The next day, Una finds herself hesitating as she walks up to Ingleside.

 _Be brave, be brave, be brave_. She repeats the words to herself, tries to hear them in her footsteps and the rhythm of her breathing. She can feel her soul shrinking within her, all her worries and fears swirling around in her head. What if they don't want to see her? What if she's bothering them? What if they see through her, know the buried-deep reason that she's visiting?

She tries to suppress her worries. There is nothing suspicious about her visiting the Blythes. Likely they won't think much of her visit - won't think about her at all.

She inhales sharply and goes to the door. It opens before she can reach it, and Rilla is pulling her inside before Una can react.

"I saw you from the window," she says. "I'm _so_ glad you came by."

Una blinks. "You are?"

"Mm. Well. There hasn't been any news in a while, so - we're trying to talk about other things, but Susan, especially, won't let it go. You know how she is."

Una does know, and she nods. "What can I do?"

"Oh, just sit and let's chat," Rilla says, tugging her along, into the living room. "I'll call down Walter and we can be frivolous together. Also," she drops her voice. "Susan's trying to teach me to bake. I've managed to cook a few things, but baking is _absolutely_ out of the question for my abilities."

Una finds that a laugh bubbles out of her at that, and takes a seat while Rilla rushes up to get Walter.

"Una!"

Mrs. Blythe has poked her head in. "Back so soon?"

Una quails at having her frequent presence pointed out. _She doesn't mean it that way_ , she reminds herself. "Yes. There's not much to do at home right now."

"Of course," Mrs. Blythe smiles. "Bruce is getting older. I'm sure Rosemary's relieved."

"Very much." Una pauses and then adds, "I think she's sad, though. That he's growing up so fast."

"It's a hard thing for any mother," Mrs. Blythe says. Her face becomes serious. "And this is a hard time for children to be growing up."

Una doesn't know what to say, so she only nods. Faith had always found it so easy to talk to the Blythes' mother, had slipped into the family as easily as if she had always been one of them. Una likes them, of course, but she feels horribly strange, sometimes, in their big house with their smiles and their laughter. She really only feels comfortable around Shirley - sometimes Walter - and now Rilla.

Speaking of. "We're here," Rilla announces, sailing in. Walter trails behind her, and when he sees Una, he smiles.

Una's heart gives a horrid _thump_ at this. She can't ever recall Walter smiling at her - at only her. She tries to ignore it.

"How have you been, Una?" he asks.

"Fine," she says, automatically.

Rilla nudges her foot. "Just 'fine'?"

Una shrugs. "I don't do much. You know that."

"None of us do," Rilla says with a sigh. "Oh! But Dad's thinking of buying an automobile, so that should be nice and distracting."

"Susan doesn't approve," Walter puts in.

"Susan's scandalized by all the newfangled technology," Rilla says with a little laugh. "She approves of aeroplanes - because _Shirley's_ flying one, of course - "

"How is Shirley?" Una asks, before she can stop herself. "He doesn't write often." She'd almost forgotten him, and feels horribly guilty - Shirley, who never pushed her to talk, who she could always count on to walk with her when everyone else was paired off.

Rilla rolls her eyes. "No, he doesn't. It drives Susan quite mad. I suppose he's all right."

"Training can be busy," Walter says quietly. Rilla twists sharply to look at him, but he doesn't catch her glance. "There's not much time to write. Especially now." He gives Una an odd look. "He hasn't written to you?"

"No," Una says. "I haven't written to him, either - so it's not only his fault."

Walter gives a little shrug. "It's more intense, now, I would think. They need more men, and they need them quickly."

"That's true," Rilla mutters. "Well, I suppose he'll write soon enough. He knows Susan's waiting." She makes a face.

"I hope he likes it," Walter murmurs. "Flying. It must be nicer than - fighting."

"I think so," Una says, before she can stop herself. "I think - it's something that I think we'd like to do even after the war. When the fighting stops - we'll want to keep flying." The thought comes out jumbled and awkward, but Walter nods like it makes sense.

"I'd love to fly," Rilla sighs. "But being in an aeroplane can't be anything like being a bird, can it?"

"No," Walter says, and Una is surprised to hear some of the old dreaminess in his voice. Rilla seems to hear it too, and a small smile breaks over her face. "I used to imagine it and - I don't think they could ever be anything alike. Even if they were - I wouldn't want to fly over Europe now. Even if I were a bird."

* * *

Una stays longer than she expects to, talking with Rilla and Walter. As though they're all friends, the way Faith used to talk with Jem and Jerry, Nan and Di. It's _nice_ , she thinks. Nice, to simply be with them. She presses her hand to her chest and finds that there's a pleasant, warm glow there.

Walter walks her to the door, then hesitates. "I'll walk you home," he says. The words tilt up at the end, like a question. Una ducks her head to hide that her face is turning red.

"If it's all right," she says, but he only smiles and shifts his weight a bit.

"Exercise helps," is all he says, and then they are off, walking up to the manse side by side. Like Jem and Faith, or Nan and Jerry.

 _But not truly, because we are friends_ , Una scolds herself. If she tricks herself into thinking that this is more - well. She won't.

Walter cannot go through Rainbow Valley without support, and he does not suggest it - Una wonders if he doesn't want her to hold his arm, if it would be too strange. Or perhaps he thinks it is asking too much of her. Instead, they go around the road, in view of the town and passersby.

"I'm glad you came back," Walter says.

Una looks at him sideways, but he is not looking at her. "Of course."

"The things I told you - I thought maybe - " He shakes his head. "I don't want to upset you."

Una gives a little shrug. She wishes she were brave enough to reach out and touch him, but she keeps her hands pressed to her sides. "I wanted to know. I still do," she corrects herself.

"I know," he says. "Sometimes I forget that - sometimes I forget." He gives her a look. "And I didn't want to make you worry about your brothers. Or Shirley."

He's left out Jem, though Una supposes that's well enough, for she has never been close to the eldest Blythe boy. "I don't think anything could make me stop worrying about them," she admits. "But - it helps. To know what's happening to them. I think being in the dark - for us, that's the worst part."

Walter nods. "Then I suppose I'm glad to help." He pauses. "But you know - I don't want to - it's selfish of me to talk only of myself." He tilts his head at her. "How are you, Una? Really."

Una hesitates. She _is_ fine, she had not lied to Rilla about that. Perhaps not ecstatic - but then, is anyone these days? But she is not crushed with sadness, either. Not now.

"All right," she says. "Maybe a bit worried. Not just the war - little things, too, sometimes. I have to come up with a plan for the Clow girls' lesson tomorrow."

"Yes," Walter says. "You're a teacher now, too." There's almost amusement in his voice.

Una shakes her head. "Not like you - and Faith - and everyone. It's just two girls."

"Better than a whole classroom, perhaps," Walter muses. "But then - you're good with children."

Has he noticed that, thought about her? Or is he just repeating something that Mrs. Blythe or Miss Cornelia said?

"Children need care," Una murmurs. "I suppose I like to care for people."

Walter gives her an odd smile. "You're good at that, too." He pauses. "But - caretakers need care, too. You listened to me. If you ever want to talk - I'll listen, too."

Una can't think of a good response to that, so she only nods, feeling her face warm. Walter lets her fall silent, and they walk through the town quietly. One of the Kirks gives them an odd look, but Una finds she doesn't care much. No one ever gossips about her anyway.

Walter's breathing is heavy when they start up the manse hill, and Una steps closer.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes when she takes his arm, giving him the slight strength she has.

"Not at all," she says, quietly. She wishes he wouldn't apologize - none of this is his fault. She wants to tell him so, but the words stick in her throat.

Walter walks her to the gate, and touches her arm before she turns away. "Una."

An awful jolt goes through her, like lightning - or what she imagines lightning must be like. She keeps her face neutral. "Hm?"

"It's good to have you come by - to have someone who understands," he says. "I'd like it if I - we - saw you more often."

"We haven't seen each other much, since the Rainbow Valley days," she agrees. She's surprised that the words have escaped her mouth. She'd only meant to murmur something commonplace.

"No," he says, thoughtfully. "And things have changed so much. Perhaps we ought to get to know each other again."

Another jolt. In this moment, Una feels that her heart and her nerves are terrible traitors. "I'd like that."

They part, and Una forces herself not to look back when she goes up the path to slip inside the house. She misses, then, Walter watching her, his face thoughtful, lingering at the gate even after she closes the door.


	10. try and understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Because the Night" by Patti Smith.

He's dreaming about it again.

The ground is leeched of all its color, gray on the surface and then black where the shells have broken it, opened it to its core. No - not its core, exactly; Walter has read Jem's science books and he knows the core is deep within, burning even as the rain falls and men go mad from the cold and damp.

"Too damned cold," a voice comes from his right.

He jerks around and there's Burrows from the hospital, cigarette dangling from his mouth. His face is as ruined as it was when Walter last saw him, left eye pulled downward at the corner by scar tissue.

Burrows, of course, was never part of Walter's unit. The man's not even Canadian. But somehow it feels perfectly normal that he's here with him.

"I know."

"Supposed to be spring," Burrows says gruffly. "April showers, May flowers, all that. Are you going to bring your mother the first mayflowers? Jem can't, you know."

"Of course I will," Walter says, feeling vaguely insulted. How could he not? How could anyone think he doesn't care enough to do that?

Burrows raises an eyebrow. "How are you going to do that?"

Walter looks at the dead earth around them, dirt turned over and over again to make trenches and graves. Or both.

"There are flowers here," he says - uselessly, for there are none of them now. He knows they should be here, red poppies blooming in the mud, over the corpses. But they're gone now. "I don't know where they went."

"Well, you'd better hurry," Burrows says. "We're going west soon."

* * *

"I used to dream about Europe."

It's late afternoon, almost turning to evening, long shadows stretching across the veranda, the world turned golden by sunset. Walter still can't quite feel his old thrill - only an odd pang. But it's better than the numbness.

Una is next to him, her yarn and knitting needles in her lap. There's something soothing, Walter finds, in the clicking of the needles. Sometimes Una hisses in annoyance - or the closest thing to it, for Una has never seemed annoyed at anything - when she forgets to purl or when the yarn gets knotted, and there's something comforting about that too. She is quiet but not silent, and Walter is grateful. Silence only reminds him of those men who will never speak again.

She is not knitting now, though. Now, she is turned towards him, listening.

"Where?" she asks.

Walter allows himself an indulgent smile at the old memory. "Anywhere. The old cities - the poetry - you've seen pictures of Venice. Rilla and I used to talk about it - Di and I were going to see Paris."

Una's mouth quirks slightly, but then the smile falls away. "You don't dream about it anymore."

"Not in the same way."

Una accepts this answer the way she does everything else he tells her. He wonders if there's anything he could do or say that would surprise her - no, he knows there are things he could tell her that would make her jaw drop, make her gasp and weep. But he won't. Una seems willing to share some of his burdens, but there are some things that Walter has decided he will never speak of. Not ever.

"It always looked lovely in the pictures," Una says. Her voice is soft and hesitant, as though she's afraid of offering up her opinion. "But - I never really thought of going there."

This does surprise him. All of them - the Merediths and Blythes and Fords - had always spoken of seeing the world. Some of them - like Walter - only meant for a vacation, but others - like Jem - meant to go away for life. Had Una really been absent from those discussions? He feels like he is always being reminded about how little he really knows of her.

"Why not?"

She shrugs, picks at the yarn in her lap. "It's - different." She pauses, and then gives a little sigh. "I suppose it takes me time to - become accustomed to places. I don't like to be uprooted. Even temporarily." She peeks at him shyly. "I know it's not reasonable."

"No," Walter says slowly. "I suppose - I understand." He doesn't quite, not really, but he doesn't want to tell her that. "But it could be worthwhile. Europe is - was - lovely." He shakes his head. "You should see it now - no, you shouldn't. It's not beautiful, Una."

"Not even the cities?"

"I suppose the cities are the same," he says. "London was - before we were sent to France - but the land…" He shivers. "We destroyed it, Una."

"Not you," Una says quietly. "Don't say that."

"No," he says. "I was there. Don't - I won't deny it. Perhaps it was some Belgian children's Rainbow Valley that we tore up." He looks away. "When I arrived, I remember - everything was gray. Or brown. No grass, no flowers. And we dug up the ground and - filled it with shells - and bodies. Nothing is alive there, Una." _Maybe not even us._ "You can't imagine."

"No," she agrees. "I can't." She presses her lips together. "But - things grow back. Not the same - but it won't be that way forever. Things survive." She doesn't look at him. "People survive. Like you."

The last part comes out so quietly that Walter almost doesn't hear it.

* * *

France is different, now.

He is barefoot this time, and the fields of Courcelette stretch out and away from him, rippling with tiny hills. Above him is only sky, no barbed wire or sandbags, guns pointed at the ready. The grass beneath his feet is as green as the grass on the lawn of Ingleside, and still damp - but with dew, not with mud.

He takes a step and nearly trips. When he looks down, he realizes - these are no hills. They are shell craters, grown over with grass and flowers, but still pressed into the earth all the same.

_Are you going to bring your mother the first mayflowers?_

Of course. He'd almost forgotten. For they're growing here, somehow, blooming alongside the poppies.

"The best ones are over here."

He turns and there is Una. She looks different, and Walter realizes that her hair is down, falling over her shoulders to her waist. She leans down and picks one of the flowers, twirls it between her pale fingers.

"I told you things survive," she says. It's a very un-Una-like thing to say. She never brags, never reminds anyone of their mistakes. But somehow that doesn't occur to him, not here.

"So you did."

"There are more over here," Una says, starting to walk. The words stick in Walter's throat - this is no-man's-land, it's dangerous. She's not even wearing a uniform - in fact, she is not even Una. Now it is Rilla walking ahead of him, now Di. He can't tell anymore.

But then, it turns out not to matter. The sound of the shell exploding is deafening, and rings in his ears even after he wakes up.

* * *

_Dear Walter,_

_I'm sorry I didn't write sooner once I got back. Busy as always, so on, so forth. I shan't bore you with all the details of my daily routine - there isn't much to tell in any case. So I'll get straight to the point: there's a nice long weekend coming up, and I thought it would be nice if you were to visit. I wasn't in the best mood when we parted, and - it would be nice to be jolly with you. And it would be a change of scenery from the Glen. I know Redmond wasn't - the nicest place before you went away, but it's different now. It's mostly us girls around here, anyway. You remember Alice Parker, don't you? She says she hasn't heard from you in a while. You could come catch up._

_I don't mean to force you to Kingsport! But I miss you, as does Nan. Do think about it._

_Love,_  
 _Di_ _  
_

* * *

"I suppose things were easier when Mother was alive. Faith doesn't remember - I think she recalls even less than I do. And Jerry doesn't like to talk about it."

They seem to almost be taking turns sometimes, sharing their stories one by one, trading their burdens for the other's. Una insists that Walter needs to talk more than she does, but Walter finds himself oddly interested in her stories. Una has no gift with words, and sometimes she holds back as though she's afraid of telling the whole story. But Walter has long been able to read between lines, figure out the truth underneath.

"None of you do," Walter points out. It's the truth - the Merediths spoke only of her passing, that first day they met in Rainbow Valley. A litany of tales about their Aunt Martha's cooking after the fact, the occasional anecdote that, their ages considered, must have taken place while Cecilia Meredith was still alive - but never really _about_ her. Perhaps Faith speaks of it to Jem, or Jerry to Nan. _Or Carl to Rilla_ , Walter hastily adds on. He and Una are not quite in the same category as the former two.

Una shrugs. "It's - how can I say this? Everything was different after she died. But I don't really remember much - about how it was before. Just little things. Her laugh. The way she'd comfort us when people were unkind at school. We used to pick flowers together, sometimes."

"That's - " Walter starts, but finds he doesn't know what to say. He wants to tell her that those are good things to remember, that her mother sounded lovely, that he doesn't know what he would've done if it had been his own mother.

Una does not seem to expect a response. "That's all, I suppose. It's - I know it's silly."

Walter blinks. "Not at all."

Una shrugs. "I just - I think about it too much - about things I don't have. Or things I lose."

"Not just your mother."

Una looks him in the eye. "No."

The strangest jolt goes through him - he's not quite sure what she means, but he thinks some part of him must know, for somehow there is the sensation of butterflies in his stomach, chills over his skin.

He tries to shake it away, but it won't quite leave. "I never knew," he says. "And I don't think it's silly. In fact, I think - I think you're quite strong."

Una's eyes widen, and for a moment Walter sees something other than wistfulness in her eyes. It slips away before he can catch it, but he knows he's seen it. Perhaps it was something grateful, the appreciation of a friend. She moves closer, ever so slightly, and then slips her hand into his. Walter blinks in surprise at the contact. He has not held hands with her since they were children. Her fingers are cold, the tips surprisingly rough. Like his are, now. Without thinking, his fingers curl around hers.


	11. third one between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Between" by Vienna Teng.

Una has never been busier in her life.

It's odd, she thinks, that she should spend so long lamenting her lack of purpose and direction, and then suddenly find herself saddled with a hundred obligations within a few months. She has her piano lessons, the Junior Red meetings, taking care of Bruce, and any spare time now is given to Walter. For the first time, sleep comes easily, stealing over her exhausted body without any struggle. It's a relief.

April turns to May, and Una knows the first mayflowers are blooming somewhere in Rainbow Valley. In a few days, Walter will bring them to Mrs. Blythe - the ground is becoming firmer now that the rain has stopped, and walking is not such a chore for him.

She shakes her head as though she can physically scatter her thoughts. There's work to be done - a Junior Reds meeting later in the week, although there isn't much to do anymore - they've stopped putting on concerts or speaking at recruitment meetings. There are too many rumors - of men scarred inside and out, even worse than Walter - men who tremble and cannot stop, who refuse to speak at all. Besides - most of the men who could go have already gone.

Which leaves sock-making, mostly. That job falls to Una; she suspects she's the only one of the Junior Reds that actually enjoys knitting. There's something pleasantly mindless about it, and she can let her thoughts wander.

Not that she has much to think about - her train of thought these days only ever seems to go in one particular direction, and lately, even thinking about Walter Blythe makes her nervous. Or excited. She can't quite tell. It's a welcome distraction, she supposes - thinking about how Walter hadn't pulled away when she touched his hand helps distract her from the fact that Jerry and Carl aren't writing as often, and Bruce keeps asking questions she doesn't have answers for.

On Monday, Rilla Blythe invites her to town again.

"Today's not a good day," she admits as they walk through the streets.

Una blinks. "What? Why?"

"Walter's been trying to read the newspaper," Rilla murmurs. "Since talking with you - he's been feeling a bit better, and he thought he could do it. But he went up to his room, and hasn't come out all day. I think - I heard him crying."

Una's heart wrings in sympathy - for Walter and for the Blythes. "It must be hard. For all of you."

Rilla nods. "I won't ask what you two talk about," she says, in one of her startling displays of perception. "But Una, we're his family. I wish he would talk to _us_ , too."

Una wishes she had something she could toy with, to avoid meeting Rilla's eyes. "He doesn't want to upset any of you."

Rilla raises an eyebrow. "He'd rather upset you?"

Oh, _when_ did Rilla become so - concerned with other people? She had always been more observant than people gave her credit for, but at least she'd been too self-absorbed to voice her concerns. But no - part of Una is grateful, she supposes, that Rilla cares.

"I suppose - because I'm older," Una lies. She feels guilty for invoking Rilla's age - after all, how many times had Jerry and Faith kept her out of the loop, because she was younger than them? But Una is not ready to tell Rilla - anything.

Rilla sighs. "When will I ever be old enough for anyone? I'm not a baby. I'm practically - " here she breaks off, and Una gets the feeling that Rilla is keeping secrets, too. "I'm different."

 _You're still innocent_ , Una wants to say, but she doesn't. Rilla is sweet and Rilla is caring, but there is so much she doesn't know, of loss and guilt. Una will not deny her own naivete, but she is nowhere near as sheltered as Rilla. She suddenly understands what Walter means when he says he wants to protect her.

"He'll tell you," Una says. "I'm sure."

Rilla lets it go, and turns the conversation to the Junior Reds - "Irene Howard is talking of coming back - even after she said she'd _never_ return to a society that 'snubbed' her so awfully - but the Lowbridge crowd has had enough of her, apparently."

Una allows herself a smile. She doesn't like Irene Howard any more than Rilla does, but she has never been one to voice her opinions, either.

"She called you hateful once, if you can believe that. Honestly. I don't think you've been rude to anyone in your life."

Una flushes. She thinks perhaps she knows what Irene was talking about - at a Sunday school concert, she had lost her temper and had been rather - curt - with Irene. And Irene's opinion doesn't bother Una very much, but the fact that Irene _talks_ about her stings.

"Did that upset you?" Rilla asks. "I'm sorry. I won't give her the satisfaction of repeating the things she says. I simply have to complain every now and then, though. I can't tell anyone else, you know. Well, maybe Walter, but - not now. And everyone else - Nan and Di and Mother and Susan - even Miss Oliver - just laugh and cast it up to me that I used to be friends with her. You're so good, Una. If you're judging me, I can't tell."

"I'm not," Una assures her. What room does she have to judge anyone? "We all - do that, at times. Jerry is _still_ friends with Bertie Shakespeare Drew."

The last part slips out before she can stop herself. She immediately berates herself - who Jerry is friends with is none of her business - and it's foolish of her to hold on to the memory of Bertie smashing her first batch of unburnt cookies. (Jerry swore up and down that Bertie hadn't meant to; Una had to admit it was silly of her to put the trays on the floor.) Besides, it's not as though the Glen thinks highly of her friendship with Mary Vance.

To her surprise, though, Rilla laughs. "Jem is, too. I suppose - for all that he's bothersome - he's not malicious." She wrinkles her nose. "Oh, we're back on the subject of malicious people again. When was the last time I talked about something happy? I can't say."

"What about Jims?"

Rilla waves the suggestion away. "I don't want to gush about him. I simply can't _stand_ people talking about their babies. I refuse to bore anyone with all of his little milestones. Oh! Are you going to the MacAllisters' party?"

Una frowns. "I don't think so. I can't dance."

Rilla shrugs. "But you could _come_. And - see people."

Una laughs gently. "It's all right. I'm busy at home, anyway." It's not entirely a lie, although Una has given up her responsibilities before to attend some dance or another. But that was before, when there was still Shirley to keep her company, and Di to sit with when they ate ices and cake, and the vague hope that Walter would take some time to talk to her between dances. And all of that is gone, now.

Rilla seems to read her thoughts. "If you say so. But don't stay home because of Walter. He might be away"

"Why?" Una asks. She immediately bites her tongue, hoping she hadn't spoken too quickly.

"There's a long weekend coming up. Di thought it would be nice if he visited her at Redmond, and Mother agrees."

"That's good," Una says. "Isn't it?"

Rilla shrugs. "I suppose. He can see some of his old friends." She gives Una an odd, sideways look. "Do you know Alice Parker?"

Of course Una knows Alice Parker - the Parkers invite the Blythes to all of their social doings, and where Nan and Jem Blythe go, Jerry and Faith go, and where Jerry and Faith go, Una and Carl tag along by default. Alice is lovely and sweet and beautiful, and gossips have murmured about her and Walter ever since he taught at Lowbridge - the parties they attended together, what a picturesque couple they made, how nice it would be if the doctors' children were romantically involved. Una hates herself for caring.

"Yes" is all she says. Rilla is still _looking_ at her, as though she's expecting another response. "She's nice."

"Mm," Rilla says. "Well, anyway, she's at Redmond, too." She chews her lip. "I suppose I'm worried. Di and Nan just don't - they don't understand him like I - we - do."

"Perhaps it's good that he's visiting them," Una points out, against her more emotional response. "Then they can learn to understand."

"Mm," Rilla says, again. "Have you heard from Shirley?" The question comes out of the blue.

Una blinks. "Yes. I had a letter a few days ago. Why?"

"No reason," Rilla says. "Hmmm."

"'Hmmm' what?"

"Nothing," she says. "Just thinking."

* * *

Bruce comes home one day with the rosy triumph of someone who has achieved something that they have waited a long time to do.

"The mayflowers are blooming," he announces. " _And_ I get to pick them this year."

"With Walter," John Meredith calls, entering the house behind his son. He smiles when he sees Una in the kitchen, making lunch. "We went up to Ingleside. Bruce was quite - enthusiastic about fulfilling Jem's duty, so Walter invited him on the search. After lunch," he adds to Bruce, who is idling by the door, as though he expects to set off at any minute.

"What were you doing at Ingleside?" Una asks.

"I was bringing him some of my books," her father says. "I thought he'd like the writings of St. Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, some of the Catholic writings on contrition. I would've lent him the works of St. Paul, too, but they're on loan to Elder Clow, and..."

Una decides to speak up before he delves into a detailed list of all the books he has ever lent anyone since coming to the Glen. "That's good. Lunch is almost done, if you'd like."

He gives her one of his usual, not-entirely-there smiles. "Ah, Una, what would we do without you?" He pauses, then comes over to gently place a hand on her shoulder. "You're becoming a wonderful lady. Your mother would be proud."

Una doesn't know what to say to that. Father rarely talks about Mother. "Thank you."

"She was always doing what she could for others," he says. "Always thinking about them." Her father gives her a searching look, his voice becoming serious. "Walter said you two have been talking. He says you've been very kind to him."

Una flushes, looks down. "I'm only - trying to listen."

"Sometimes," John Meredith says, his voice returning to its usual dreamy tone, "that's all a human being really desires. To be heard, understood." He blinks. "I should write my sermon before I forget it. Will you take Bruce back to Ingleside?"

"Of course," Una says. "Bruce, come eat your lunch. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can go looking for mayflowers."

Bruce finishes in record time, and pulls at her sleeve as she tries to eat. "Can we go yet?"

Una nearly chokes down the rest of her food. "All right, all right. Go put your jacket on."

Bruce practically drags her down the hill to the road to Ingleside, chattering all the while.

"It's a good thing I'm nine now," he says as they approach the big house. "Then I can go and take Jem's place, and maybe he can come back. Is Europe _very_ far?"

Una bites her lip to keep from laughing - or perhaps crying. If only Bruce knew that it doesn't work that way; that hundreds of thousands of men have gone and only a few have come back. Perhaps only a few will. She shivers, then puts a smile on for her brother.

Susan greets them at the door. "I knew you'd be back, you munchkin," she says, patting Bruce's face. Bruce basks in her attention; he is still young enough to enjoy maternal affection. "Walter!" she calls. "Bruce is back. And Una is with him." She clucks her tongue. "Honestly, as if you two don't see enough of each other."

Una knows that Susan doesn't always mean half of what she says, but still she quails in nervousness. Does Susan - disapprove - of her, somehow? _Don't be ridiculous_ , she scolds herself. She has been friends with the Blythes for a decade now; Susan would have said something if she truly didn't like her.

"Father was busy," Una says, trying not to sound too defensive.

Susan shrugs. "I suppose anything that gets him out of the house is well enough. When the doctor's new automobile comes in, I expect he'll be gallivanting around as much as he used to - "

"Susan," Walter says as he comes in, his voice a warning. Then his eyes fall on Una. "Una!"

"Yes, those are our names," Susan grumbles, taking her leave. "Don't stay out too long. Your leg will get a pain, or so the doctor tells me."

"Father's busy," Una says, accidentally squeezing Bruce's hand so tightly that he gives a yelp. "So I brought Bruce instead."

"I'm glad," Walter says, his voice warm. "Shall we?"

* * *

Walter leads them on a path that Una has never visited before. The branches of the trees here hang low - so low that even Una has to duck slightly. Walter's face twists in pain as he bends to pass under them. Una wants to ask if he is all right, or comfort him somehow, but there is a sort of determination on his face that tells her that such a thing would not be wise.

"Jem showed me where the flowers bloom," he says. "Before he left."

"And you showed Shirley," Una muses. It's only an aside comment, but Walter gives her an odd look.

"Yes." It's an unusually curt answer.

They walk in silence for a while longer, with only the chirping of the birds and Bruce's oblivious humming to accompany them. Walter seems to be lost in thought, and Una has learned that it is best to let him think, and then speak.

"Here," Walter finally says.

The grove is thick with green, carpeted in sweetgrass and encircled by leafy trees. Sunlight filters through the canopy created by the leaves and branches. There's something secret about this place. Una doesn't feel right speaking in anything above a whisper.

Bruce senses it too. "Thank you for showing me this," he murmurs to Walter.

"Of course," Walter says. "Here, why don't you go look for some flowers? Picking them is a bit - difficult - for me, now."

Bruce quickly acquiesces, hurrying off to hunt for the blossoms at the base of the trees, between the mossy stones.

"He's glad to help," Una says quietly. "He told me he'd like to go to Europe and take Jem's place."

Walter's face twitches, but he nods. "His heart is in the right place."

Una bites her lip. "You don't think the war will last that long." Bruce will be eighteen in - nine years, she calculates. It seems so far off, but then - three have already passed, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. Perhaps the war _will_ drag on. How can any of them know?

"No," Walter says slowly. "It _must_ end - for no one wants to be fighting it anymore. I think soon _someone_ will give up, simply out of exhaustion. But 'soon' is - relative. Especially - afterwards." He shakes his head. "Perhaps we could talk about something else today."

"Of course," Una says. She pauses, trying to find a new topic. "Have you written a poem about this place?"

Walter's mouth quirks in a smile. "How did you guess?"

"It's beautiful," she murmurs. "How could you have not?" She looks around, at the peaceful loveliness of it. "Oh!"

There is a tiny patch of mayflowers, blooming only a little ways ahead. Una picks a flower, twirling it between her fingers. "Here's - " She turns around and stops.

Walter is looking at her, staring as though he's never seen her before. For a moment Una wonders if she has made some terrible trespass, but no, there's something distant in his eyes, as though he has gone off to another one of his worlds.

"Walter?"

He blinks and comes back. "Sorry. I only - I was reminded of something."

 _By what?_ Una wonders, spinning the flower idly. "Something pleasant?"

"A bit," he says, his face thoughtful. "You were right, you know."

"About what?"

"Things surviving." He looks at her. "There's still beauty in the world, sometimes. But - it's still hard."

"I know," Una says softly. "I think - it will always be so. But things heal. You know that - now."

"Rilla told me you heard from Shirley," Walter says abruptly.

"Yes," Una says, confused. Is Shirley not writing to the Blythes? It is the only reason she can fathom for why they all seem so interested in her correspondence with him. "He's doing - well enough."

"He doesn't write much," Walter says. "Only to Susan, and she won't tell us what he says."

Una shrugs. She and Shirley have always been friends, the quiet ones in their loud families. When he had gone to Queen's, she had cried a little before sleep at the thought that soon he would be just as accomplished as their siblings, would leave her behind. She wouldn't betray his confidences, though, not even to Walter or Rilla.

"It's hard," she says. "Being - in his place. I think he's used to not saying much."

Walter gives her a sideways look. "You know him better than we do," he says, a bit ruefully.

Una smiles at the memories suddenly drifting through her mind. "We always ended up together, I suppose," she says. "Because we were so quiet."

Walter touches her hand, just for a moment. "We forgot about you two, didn't we?" he asks.

"Only sometimes," Una says quickly, not wanting to make him feel guilty. "It was all right. I didn't much like the things Faith and Jerry and Carl liked, anyway. Shirley and I - understand each other, in that sort of way. That's all. That's why I hear from him more often, I suppose. He does miss all of you - he's said so."

"You miss him."

Una blinks. "Of course I do. I miss - everyone."

Walter watches her for a moment, then turns away. They fall quiet, listening to Bruce's cries of delight whenever he finds a patch of flowers. Una feels that she must say something to break the odd silence - for this silence _does_ feel odd, not the comfortable quiet that they usually share.

"Thank you, by the way," Una murmurs.

Walter turns at her, blinks. "For what?"

"Bringing me here," she says. "I know - it was always such a secret, for you and Jem and Shirley. Thank you for letting me in."

Walter looks at her, right in the eye. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it. "Perhaps I should have done so earlier."


	12. a little bit of good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line of poetry in the third part is from "The Aftermath" by L.M. Montgomery. Also, I subscribe to the theory that "The Piper" was basically LMM's stand-in for "In Flanders Fields" - so while I kept the text that LMM published in The Blythes Are Quoted, I took the surrounding events (the use of the poem to sell bonds and boost morale, etc) from what John McCrae experienced with the publication of "In Flanders Fields." I'm also a bit fuzzy on 1910s copyright law/whether or not Walter would get paid for the poem to be reprinted at all. (I sort of decided that he would get paid if the reprint was for profit - i.e., selling war bonds, but that could be wrong.) Apologies for the likely inaccuracy, and just repeat to yourself, "It's just a fanfic, it's just a fanfic," please!
> 
> Title is from "Sukoshi de Ii Kara" ("A Little Bit of Good") by Tenjochiki.

Walter sighs, looking down at the mess strewn about his bed. He had never been quite as neat as Shirley, nor as disorganized as Jem - always occupying the medium between them. But no one who could see Walter's room in this moment would know it.

He'd debated and deliberated for days over Di's letter, worried and fretted like Jem before his Queen's entrance exam. No one in the house seemed to notice, withdrawn as Walter is, which is well enough. He doesn't want to upset them further, and for once, his worry is only a common one. It would be good, he think, to see Di again, to try and fix all that is strange between them. If it can be fixed. Perhaps this is a part of growing up. They are adults now, with their own lives and paths, and if they are only going to diverge, then - then that is that.

But no, Walter doesn't want to accept that. Di, who he has always shared everything with. The two of them shared almost a soul, and if Walter cannot fight the war, fight his own nightmares, then he must at least fight for that.

And so he had written, telling her that he would come, in a few weeks' time during her long weekend.

Which leaves the question of what to bring. It is too early to pack, but - perhaps if he manages to get his luggage in order, his mind will clear as well. He and Di had parted on good terms, but there is still something strange between them. So much she doesn't understand. Perhaps they'll be able to fix it - or perhaps they'll spent the weekend in cold, awkward silence.

 _But there will be Nan_ , Walter adds. _And Alice_. How odd - that all his male friends are have gone. As they must.

Not all the men had gone, of course. Some had stayed, stubbornly refusing to enlist even as they were presented with hundreds of white feathers, letters that Walter is sure were even more malicious than those he'd received. One fellow, Arthur Baker, had walked campus one day with all the feathers he'd received pinned to his coat, enough to nearly cover the front. Walter still doesn't know if he admires him or thinks him an idiot.

For Arthur Baker will never have to know what Walter knows, now. Perhaps he is wiser for that, but Walter knows that if he sees him on the campus, they will not be able to talk, not as friends. For Walter went, after all, and Arthur didn't.

Perhaps fearing war is not the cowardice - perhaps it is the doing of the things that Walter has done. But then - he thinks of Bruce Meredith in the mayflower grove, his laughter as he searches for flowers, sees Una holding a flower between her fingers. It had reminded him so strongly of an almost-forgotten dream that he'd been frozen, for a moment.

But unlike in his dream, there had been no shells, no mines, no danger lurking beneath the sweetgrass. And that is how it will stay. So perhaps he has done a - little - bit of good, after all. And perhaps they'll see that, when he returns to Redmond.

He shakes his head. Several of his old clothes don't quite fit anymore - he has gained muscle from training and digging and running and dragging sandbags, and has lost weight from two years of rations and nerves. He won't ask Mother or Susan to adjust them, though. He thinks maybe he can - God knows there were no mothers to stitch up rips in their uniforms at the front.

It would be good to do - something, anyway. Lately he has been feeling oddly irritated and jumpy, for no reason that he can explain. It's not from the nightmares or the lingering pain of war - no, that is something bone-deep, that exhausts him from the inside out. This is closer to the surface, like needles pricking at his skin. He supposes it's better than - the other - but it's no more pleasant by any stretch. He can't pinpoint the source, either - and as Dad and Jem always say, you have to know the problem to find the cure. He thinks it started that day with Una and Bruce, in Rainbow Valley - but then, what could have upset him? Perhaps it is one of his odd premonitions. The Allies have begun their Spring Offensive. Maybe - maybe something is about to go wrong. Jem or Shirley - no, he won't think like that. Maybe this has nothing to do with that at all.

 _Nothing at all_ , he reassures himself, holding up a pair of trousers that are almost abominably short. He shakes his head. _When_ was the last time anyone had sorted through his clothes?

* * *

Una doesn't look well, when she comes up to Ingleside. She has been away for a while - busy, she said, the last time they'd spoken. He can see that she wasn't lying. Strands of dark hair are unwinding from her braid, which itself is rather crooked and loose. There are faint shadows under her eyes.

Still, when she sees him, she smiles. Walter feels something inside him warm. Una is like that, he's found. He never feels quite as terrible around her.

They end up ambling through Rainbow Valley, settling beneath the Tree Lovers. Una doesn't say much, and Walter finds himself sneaking glances at her occasionally.

"You're not all right," he observes finally, when the silence is too much to bear.

Una jumps slightly, as though startled. Then she gives a little laugh and leans against the entwined trees. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, and moves to take her hand. It is only a simple gesture of friendship, one that is becoming familiar, comfortable to him. Una's hands are always cold, though they warm in his grasp. The tips of her fingers are rough from housework - it had surprised him the first time. His sisters - even Faith - worked their minds, not their hands. Now, though, he knows her hands, the ridges of her fingers and the softness at the base of her wrists, as well as he knows his own.

"Tell me."

Una sighs, but does not pull away. "Things are - overwhelming. Jerry and Carl - " she shrugs. "It's hard."

Her words are simple, but Walter can see the fears, the sleepless nights, reflected in her face. Una expresses herself best without words.

"They'll come through," he says, giving her hand a quick squeeze.

"Oh, Walter," she sighs. "Please don't lie."

He pauses for a moment, unsure how much to tell. All his stories - always they have been his own, never anything that could touch her brothers or his.

"I don't know if much will come of this Spring Offensive," he admits. "Every time - they tell us it's the final push, this one battle that will send them over the edge. But…"

He feels Una's fingers press into his palm. "But?"

"But. It never quite turns out that way." He tugs at their joined hands to motion towards his leg. "The battle I was injured in. They sent us over the top, running straight at the other side. I survived that, but then - there was the gas, and the shelling. And at night there's the raids. You think - you think maybe you're safe, for a while, but - you never really are." He tilts his head at her. "But the rains should have stopped. So there will be less mud." He knows it's not much of a comfort.

Una nods. "I see." She turns to peer at him. "It's like that every day?"

"For years."

She doesn't look away, and he thinks perhaps she understands all that he has left unsaid, in their conversations - the waiting, not for a battle or for reprieve, but for the shell to finally fall, for the gas to finally come at eat at their skin, their bones. He has escaped that, but her brothers have not. Her hand remains steady in his.

"Oh, Walter," she says, even softer than before.

He leans his head on Una's shoulder, and after a moment, her head comes down to rest against his. He briefly wonders if this makes him weak - leaning on her the way Faith leans on Jem, Nan to Jerry. He should be supporting _her_ , that's what he's always been told. But no - they are holding each other up, letting their burdens be carried across where their shoulders touch.

* * *

The coming of the mail today is not pleasant.

There are no letters from Jem or Shirley, nor from Ken or Carl (Jerry writes only to Nan, at Redmond). Perhaps they don't even know he's home, yet. Rilla hums in disappointment, but masks it quickly and busies herself with feeding Jims. Susan mutters darkly about the kind of conditions Shirley must be in, if he has no time to write her.

For Walter, there is only a circular and a letter addressed in his own hand. The circular is a check - a neat sum for the reprinting of "The Piper" to sell war bonds in the United States. The slip of paper feels too light for something that makes him feel so heavy. He can't buy anything with this money, he thinks. Money he earned encouraging men to fight this war. He's as bad as the men in the recruitment offices and the girls passing out white feathers.

The checks come more often than he'd expected, too. Perhaps he'll never have to complete his degree. Certainly the magazines would accept more poetry from him - but then, the poetry he writes now - _And when the moon rose redly in the east, I killed a stripling boy_ \- well. He doesn't think anyone will want to read it, even when the war is over.

The next is the letter, addressed to one of the men in his battalion. He had only meant to ask how things were, try to reach out as best he can. But it's been returned, and there is no stamp to mark some kind of postal mishap. So his comrade has gone west, then. He ought to have expected it.

Rilla nods at the envelope. "Who's it from?"

"Returned," he murmurs, setting it aside. Perhaps it's something in his face that gives it away, for Rilla's face falls and she busies herself with her own mail.

He picks up the circular and turns it over and over, in his hands, thinks of his other poems. One in particular sticks in his mind. He could never send it to the Spectator, or any magazine of that like. But there are some publications, he knows, that may be more receptive. And isn't that what he wants? For people to understand?

Maybe it is time to tell them.


	13. a love with intuition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "The Tower" by Vienna Teng.

"Tell me something nice," Una suggests, one day.

Walter blinks at her, and for a moment she thinks she's said it quite wrongly. She decides to rephrase: "Try to think of something nice. And then tell me." She bites her lip, decides to offer him one of her secrets in trade. "My mother used to do this with me, on days when I was upset."

Walter's face softens. "Were you upset often?"

"Oh," Una sighs. "I suppose. It wasn't that so many terrible things happened, it was just so _easy_ to make me - well." She turns to him. "You know."

"I do," Walter says. "Jem used to become quite defensive when Mary Vance made you and Faith upset."

"I think that was more for Faith's benefit than mine," Una says, laughing a little. It is easy to laugh when they reminisce. Not so much when they think about the future.

Walter does not smile, and Una feels an old, familiar pang. While gossip has only ever linked Walter to Alice Parker in Lowbridge, Una has occasionally caught Walter looking at her sister as if - as if - well. It is not something Una likes to dwell on.

"Maybe so," Walter admits. "But I did think she was unnecessarily cruel, sometimes."

"Oh, don't talk about Mary Vance that way," Una says. "She was my first real friend, you know. And she's never meant to be unkind."

Walter ducks his head. "I won't speak ill of her anymore," he promises, though Una notices he doesn't change his opinion. But she knows well that the Blythes don't get along with Mary - for the Blythes are sweet, the Blythes are kind, but the Blythes are also just a little bit snobbish, in their well-meaning way. She doesn't say anything.

"Something nice," Walter repeats. He cracks half a smile. "I won't be sarcastic, for your sake." He pauses, then sighs. "I never was sarcastic. A bad habit I picked up from some of my comrades, I suppose. But - they were good men. _Are_ good men. Even the Germans, maybe," he adds.

"Do you mean that?" Una asks.

"Sometimes…we could hear the other side, waiting with us. Singing or talking or praying."

"It's hard to think of them doing things like that," Una says softly. "But then - I suppose it's hard for them to imagine us - you - in the same way."

"When I first arrived," Walter says, "they hadn't figured out how to move us around very well. We sat and waited, for so - so long. We'd get bored. And it seemed - pointless, to fight, when all of us were so d - so tired." Una wonders why he bothers to censor himself - there is no word the Meredith children didn't learn from Mary Vance.

"Sometimes they'd let us run out - quickly - to recover our casualties," Walter says. "And we'd do the same for them. The officers would look the other way, and I think - I think that was quite nice. A nice thing."

He is speaking faster now, the memories coming to the surface. Una touches his hand to let him know that she is still listening.

"We were all strangers, you know. Just - thrown together. We owed each other nothing. But still we worked together. We protected each other."

"Jerry wrote that you should have gotten a V.C. for saving that man, that time," Una murmurs. She remembers reading his letter and thrilling - quietly - at the image of Walter, noble and brave, as gallant as a hero in the old stories. _That is who I love_ , she had thought, letting herself get caught up in her girlish fantasy for a moment. It's odd - but no, she thinks she can understand a little more, now - that he takes no pride in it.

Walter, to her surprise, flushes slightly. He shakes his head. "It was nothing that other men weren't doing, every day. For both sides."

Una tilts her head at him. "It's funny," she says slowly, thinking of the letters from her brothers and Shirley. "None of you seem to - hate - the Germans very much. We all thought you did, somehow."

Una supposes she never really had. Sometimes she pictures them as they are in the posters and silent pictures, all beastly and ready to drag her away to some horrid fate, and true, it sends terrible shivers down her spine, and she stitches and bakes with the conviction that they cannot, must not, win.

They frighten her and they worry her, but still she feels an odd sort of guilt every time she tries to _hate_ them, tries to pretend that they aren't writing home and receiving socks from their families in Berlin or Munich or one of those strange European cities, that they don't have anyone waiting for them - Una has always had a soft heart.

Walter turns to look at her, and she feels a shiver go down her spine at the look in his eyes. "How could we?" he asks quietly. "When they're not so different from us at all. It's - ironic, I suppose," he says, some of his old literary studies vocabulary slipping through, as though he's discussing a particularly fascinating novel. "We were supposed to be fighting against them - but Una - honestly - I think we hated them the least."

* * *

_Dear Una,_

_Thanks for all your letters. Sorry I haven't written as often as I should, and if I made you worry. I'm all right, I guess. As Susan said (and is probably still saying), flying is clean work - in its own way. Not much like being a bird, I'm afraid. There's something rather - lonely about being up here. Maybe after the war, we can go up in groups, and that will make it better. But I guess it's exciting to think that we've made it up here at all. Sorry, you know I've never been good with words._

_I'm always glad to hear from you, and I hope all is well. I used to say that it's hardest for the mothers and daughters and sisters, but now, I'm not sure. I can't tell you everything I've seen, Una. I don't know if Walter's told you, either. I'll be blunt and say it's harder for us. But that doesn't make the waiting any easier, I know._

_I hope you'll keep writing._

_Shirley_

* * *

_Dear Una,_

_Things are still the same 'round here. I'm all nice and settled in, and there are times when I don't miss home so much - or at least, I'm so busy I don't have time to miss home. And there are nice things about being over here, too. Some of the soldiers recuperating here are very kind and funny - you wouldn't think they were in a war at all. But then sometimes, when they go to sleep - it's a rather different story. But they keep going, somehow, and I think - how wonderful humans can be, sometimes. It's all that keeps me going some days._

_Jem came back on leave and I saw him for a while. We walked around and it was quite nice. I always thought we'd see England together, although - not like this, I suppose. He's not quite the same, and it's frightening - is that the word I want to use? No, not frightening. But sometimes I think - well, never mind. He hadn't heard that Walter was injured and sent back - I had to tell him. He's glad, though, that Walter is safe now._

_How is everything at home? Rosemary writes often, but Father never as much as he should - absentminded as ever, I suppose. Walter's letters are so horribly short, too. I wonder if he'll go back to Redmond, now that he's home. It will be easier for him to get into classes, at any rate! See, I can still be jolly, on occasion._

_Where was I? What I meant to write was that it's up to_ you _, my dear, to tell me all the goings-on, if you can. How tall Bruce must be now! It's hard to think that life is going on there without me. Ah, but now I sound like some of my patients._

_I have to go now - this is the only spare moment I've had all week. By the time I send this, it'll probably be ages later. But please give all my love to Father and Rosemary and Bruce as always, and say hello to Ingleside for me._

_Love,_  
 _Faith_ _  
_

* * *

May fades into June, the almost overwhelming lush of hazy, warm days. Walter's birthday is at the very end of May, on the edge of summer. They spend it quietly; Susan makes as rich a cake as she can with her ration supply. Una agonizes over a gift, spending several sleepless nights on it, working by moonlight and the occasional lamp (one of Una's secret fears is that she will leave a lamp burning and wake up with the house on fire). Still, by Walter's birthday, Una has put together a pamphlet of pressed flowers and poems she'd copied from her father's books, and - with the panicked thought that she should have a contingency plan - knitted a perfectly respectable scarf. His mouth quirks when he sees them and for a second Una thinks she can see - something. Perhaps.

Walter is to leave for Redmond, to visit Nan and Di, he says. Just for the weekend - they're staying on throughout the summer to help with the Red Cross, tacking on a few classes to make up for those they had to give up during the school year.

It takes all of Una's energy not to ask if he's looking forward to seeing Alice Parker, as well.

"Why didn't you ever go to Redmond?" he asks one day, in the parlor at Ingleside. Rilla is playing with Jims, trying to provoke a smile from him. She looks up when Walter asks the question.

"Not all of us want to spend our days with 'ologies and 'isms," she scolds gently.

Una is grateful for the excuse. She doesn't wish to admit the real reason to Walter. It seems foolish and silly, when presented to someone like him.

Walter gives a slight smile. "You can't tell us you still think of nothing but having fun, Rilla-my-Rilla."

"No," Rilla admits. "But my goals still don't involve having a degree." She blushes as she says this, for a reason Una cannot quite figure. Walter seems to be in on the secret, however - he smiles at Rilla as she goes back to fussing over Jims. The smile is fondly amused, but there's something else - a sadness. It is a look that is becoming familiar on his face.

Then he turns to her, and Una wishes she had brought her knitting, for she needs something to watch, to help her avoid eye contact. She feels very vulnerable without any distractions.

"I don't suppose there was anything I liked doing enough," she says. She doesn't add that, like Rilla, she doesn't quite aspire to anything that requires a degree, either.

"You like teaching piano," Rilla says, not taking her eyes off Jims.

Una shrugs. She does, but not in the manner of grand passion that drives Jem to medicine or Walter to poetry. She likes to _play_ the piano, and she likes children, and she likes to help people - it's more the combination of those things than the occupation itself, she supposes.

She does not say any of those things and lets the topic slip her by. "Are you going to return to Redmond, Walter?"

Walter, who has been letting Jims pull at his hair, frowns. "Why?"

Una shifts, feeling awkward at his own discomfort. "I had a letter from Faith, and she was just wondering. That's all," she tries to reassure him.

He looks down at his hands, empty now that Jims has crawled back to Rilla. "I don't know. Not yet."

"I think you'd still be a good English professor," Rilla offers. "Ow! Jims!"

Walter looks alarmed. "Rilla?"

"He bit my nose!" Rilla gasps, a hand over the injured body part.

Walter chuckles - a real chuckle, and it is perhaps because of this that Rilla does not take offense to his amusement. "I'll go hand him off to Susan." He scoops up Jims and carries him off while the child makes sounds that sound suspiciously like laughter.

"He's good with Jims," Una notes. A brief thought comes to her mind, _he would be a good father_ , and then she stamps it out.

Rilla props her hand on her chin. "Better than I am - _sometimes_ ," she says. "I've become much better with children. Do you think I'd be a good mother?"

It's not quite a non-sequitur, but it's enough out of the blue that Una blinks. "You?"

She doesn't mean it the way it sounds, but Rilla looks hurt. "Yes, _me_. I'm much less - silly, aren't I? Don't you think?"

There's something strangely serious in her eyes, and Una doesn't have the heart to tease, or be anything but honest. "Of course."

Rilla hugs her arms to herself for a moment. "Jem and Shirley still write to me like I'm a baby," she sighs. "Sometimes I think maybe I've fooled myself into thinking I'm more grown-up."

"Just think," Una says. "Before the war, we never spoke. Now - I think we're friends."

Rilla looks almost offended. "Of course we're friends, you - you _goose_."

Una's mouth opens. _No_ one has ever called her a goose before. And then she has to laugh, and then the two of them are laughing together, and it feels like breathing out after holding it in for so long.

"How am I the goose?" she finally asks, when they both calm down. "You _know_ you'd be a fine mother, Rilla."

Rilla looks embarrassed. "It's just - something - I've been thinking about, lately. Don't you wonder, sometimes?"

No, Una does not wonder. Somehow - deep within her bones - she knows she would be a good mother, if only somebody would want her. She would love her children as well as her own mother did, in Una's almost-faded memories. It is perhaps one of the only things she had never questioned.

Until, of course, the war.

"A little," she murmurs. "It's a while off yet, though, isn't it?"

Rilla hums a bit. "You're already twenty."

This stings, a bit. Yes, she is twenty. Twenty years old, and no boy has ever looked twice at her. "Ah, not all of us are as pretty as you, Rilla."

Rilla flushes delicately, as she is wont to do. "Yes, but - Walter!"

"Jims is taking a nap," he tells Rilla, and then he sits back down and they continue as normal.

Only - perhaps it is her imagination, wishful thinking, a seed of hope planted by Rilla's talk of children and marriage - but she thinks Walter glances at her every so often, a look on his face that she cannot pinpoint.


	14. and i wind up a bit further away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Distance" by Utada Hikaru.

The weather is fine the day Walter departs for Redmond. It is - eerily - similar to the day he left for Valcartier, he realizes - the sky blue and deep and cloudless, the air warm and all the flowers in the bloom of summer.

But no, this time is different. He is not going so far away. And this time, he knows he is coming back.

He's made the trip to Redmond several times before, but still everyone has gathered to see him off. Mother and Dad hug him close - Susan's is brief but crushing - Rilla leans her chin on his shoulder for a moment and whispers, "Take care."

Dog Monday nudges at his hands, his nose wet.

"Silly dog," Susan says. "He thinks Walter's going back to see Little Jem."

Walter bends down slightly - a twinge of pain goes through his back and his knees - and gives Dog Monday a pat. He feels ashamed that he cannot give the poor dog some hope, and then vaguely foolish for being ashamed.

Mr. and Mrs. Meredith have not come, but Una has. She takes his hand, just the way she had when he returned, just the way she had when he left the first time.

"It'll be all right," she murmurs. Walter feels the strangest pang, an odd hurt in his chest. It's only for a few days, but - he'll miss her. "I'll see you soon."

"You will," he says, and she smiles - the faintest hint of one, as is her way, but a smile nevertheless. It's a sweet expression, he thinks. He wishes she had more reason to use it.

The train arrives and he gets on with relative ease. It is almost shameful, that he needs help to balance his bag and his cane, as he tries to lift himself from the platform. But then he inhales and lets it go. This is his life, now.

He settles in his seat and turns to watch everyone on the platform. They are all huddled there, just like the day he left - no, not like the day he left. He searches for the little differences: Dad and Mothers' faces are not sorrowful or pale; Susan is more concentrated on keeping her kerchief from flying away than his departure.

Rilla and Una, though, are still standing together. Rilla is - Rilla - but somehow he finds himself watching Una, as the train grinds and begins to pull away from the station.

He keeps remembering, somehow, her words from the other day: _not all of us are as pretty as you, Rilla_. It's true, he knows: no one in the whole of the Island is quite as pretty as his little sister. Still, it has made him - think. What was it that he had overheard Miss Cornelia say, once? "Una Meredith will never be pretty, but she is sweet."

He had agreed with her then, but - it's because he has been spending so much time with her lately, he supposes, that it's bothering him now. Una, with her kind smiles and understanding words. He wishes he could tell her that he's come to think of her as quite pretty, likes her smile better than the golden looks of all the girls in his poems - but there is no way to tell her that without admitting that he'd overheard their conversation. And Una, he has discerned, does not wish for pity.

The train winds away until they are nothing more than specks, then they are out of sight completely. Just like before.

* * *

"Walter, over here!"

By the time the train arrives in Kingsport, Walter is exhausted - but it is an ordinary, everyday exhaustion, not the kind that comes from his thoughts and his nightmares - and so it is all right.

Nan and Di are standing together on the platform, Di waving her arms over her head, Nan standing away as though embarrassed to be seen with her. Walter manages a smile and heads over to them, his bag weighing down his left side, his cane holding up his right.

"I'm so glad you're here," Di whispers. Nan doesn't say a thing, but she smiles and Walter is glad to be with them.

"We've asked Alice Parker 'round for the evening," Di says as they pile into the cab - for a moment Walter struggles, then Nan realizes what is happening and helps push him into the vehicle. "Just the Island gang."

"That's nice," Walter says, automatically. They had been close friends, as children and when he went to teach at Lowbridge - she had been as upset as his family when he received a white feather - but God, had he even written to her when he was at the front? Why can't he remember?

"I hope you don't mind being stuck with us girls," Nan says, and Walter shakes his head. He knows all the men - all the men in their circle - have gone to fight. And he would not want to see them, anyway.

"We've moved," Di says. "I wrote you about that, didn't I?" Walter notices that they are not heading in the direction where their old boardinghouse was. "Well, us and Faith - but she's gone now. I hope we don't have to give the place up," she adds with a sigh. "It's harder with just the two of us, and it's the dearest little house. Oh, well."

She _had_ written to him about it, but Walter finds he can barely remember the letter. It had been - just one of many he'd received, recovering in that hospital in England, one that he'd read and forgotten, lost in the haze of all he had just escaped.

Nan crinkles her nose. "Oh, don't say 'oh, well.' I'd like to keep the place as long as possible - it's _impossible_ to go back to boardinghouses once you've had your own place."

They laugh and Walter smiles, but it doesn't seem to be enough - they both turn to look at him and go silent. They remain so for the rest of the trip home.

* * *

Di is right - the house they're renting is sweet, a tiny thing tucked away from main roads and grown over with flowers and vines. Walter thinks he'd like to live in a place like this, someday - small and quiet. He has lost his taste for noise and vibrancy, he's found.

"We'll have to find a new boarder soon," she says, fumbling with the door - "It's a tricky old thing" - although Walter can't be sure if she's talking to him or Nan. "I thought we could ask Louise, from the Red Cross group - "

"She's so _fussy_ ," Nan sniffs. "It would be like living with Susan."

"Well, the way you clean, having a Susan around would be helpful," Di says. Nan sticks her tongue out at her. It all seems odd, exaggerated - like they're putting a show on for him.

"We'll put you up in Faith's room," Di continues. "She had it to herself - Nan and I thought we'd might as well share - so you can sleep in there for the weekend."

They let him alone to put his things away - really just his bag, with his clothes and his notebooks.

He can see why they had given this room to Faith - it has a large window, sunshine lighting up the whole room, and the limb of a tree reaching across the view, almost inviting the room's inhabitant to climb it. He can see her, in Rainbow Valley, scrambling up the Tree Lovers or the Naked Lady with no regards to their sanctity.

They had all been so happy, then.

Well, perhaps not all of them - he remembers Una's stories, the little wistful smile on her face as she talked about the days before Rosemary joined their family. What is she doing, now? Perhaps giving one of her piano lessons. Or talking with Rilla. Or - well, it does not matter, does it?

With a shake of his head, he tucks his bag in the corner and goes out to join his sisters.

* * *

Alice Parker comes over as promised, balancing a pie on her arm as she struggles with her bag. She attempts to give Walter a hug, but nearly falls over in the attempt.

"For heaven's sake," Nan says with a laugh. "Put your things down first. He'll be here all weekend, Alice."

"It's only that it's been so long," Alice says, looking at him with her blue, blue eyes. "I haven't heard from you in ages."

Walter shifts uncomfortably. "I've been busy."

"Oh, I'm sure," Alice says quickly. "I've barely heard from Andy, since he's - gone." She tilts her head at Walter. "I suppose you never saw him 'over there,' did you?"

He shakes his head mutely. Why people think that? That they're all together, laughing and joking and romping through the trenches as though it's all some childhood game? They're tossed together with men they would have never spoken to, if not for the war, men from towns Walter had never heard of and cities on the opposite side of the continent.

But they do not know that.

Alice is as cheerful and dimpled as ever, although sometimes her smile falters, and Walter knows she has worries and fears, too. Every now and then, she catches him watching her and touches his hand. It doesn't quite warm him, but it is - nice.

"I worried about you," she says quietly, when Nan and Di are setting up the piano to sing. "I suppose I've always felt responsible for you - " her mouth quirks " - ever since I had to _save_ you from my brother and Fred Johnson."

Walter gives a short laugh, but it comes out easily. "I'm fine."

"But your leg - and your skin - " her hand comes up, and Walter pulls back before she can touch him. Then he feels foolish. Perhaps she hadn't meant to do that at all.

"It's healed," he says quickly. "And - I've gotten used to it."

Alice leans her chin on her hand. "How different you are," she muses. "I read 'The Piper,' you know. I don't believe I'm talking to the Walter that wrote it."

He shrugs, tracing a pattern on the carpet with his shoe. "No, I suppose I'm not."

Alice nods and when she turns to Walter, there are tears in her eyes. "What do you suppose Andy will be like? All our friends?"

Walter opens his mouth, then closes it. What can he say? He feels useless and weak when faced with their expectations. He suddenly misses Una, wishes he could press his palms into hers to steady himself.

Thankfully he is saved by Di and Nan, who have found the sheet music. They gather around the piano and sing as though it is any party, the kind they always used to attend together. Di's arm is around his waist and it is almost like old times.

Almost.


	15. cry and smile the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Momentum" by Vienna Teng.

"Make sure not to move your hand if you don't have to," Una reminds Helen Clow. She has a terrible habit of letting her fingers drift, and always ends up losing track of where the keys are.

Helen's face turns red and her fingers tremble, but bobs her golden head in understanding. Still, Una knows she's going to have to correct her a few more times before she gets it. It would irritate anyone else, Una supposes, but she doesn't mind. Helen reminds Una a bit of herself - eager to please and quick to cry when she makes a mistake.

Unlike Una, though, Helen is the older sister. Grace, the younger, sits on the sofa and swings her legs, observing until it is her turn. Grace has more natural talent for the piano than Helen, but Helen tries so much harder, and that endears her to Una.

 _Perhaps I like hopeless cases_ , she thinks, and then is alarmed at her own bitterness.

Of course, Grace is also much more stubborn. When it's her turn, she hops onto the bench, then turns to Una. "May I have a harder piece?"

Una blinks. "I'm not sure - "

"I practiced all the other ones," Grace says, squirming around, much like Faith used to. " _Please?_ "

"She did," Helen says. Now that she isn't under pressure to perform well, she is placid in both face and voice.

Una sighs. She feels sapped of her energy. She thinks she'd like to go to sleep, perhaps for the next few days. Arguing with Grace doesn't appeal to her. "Well, show me, and then I'll decide."

Grace has not lied: she plays the pieces Una assigned her easily. Some people, Una muses, would enjoy have a budding virtuoso under their tutelage, but Una can only think of how soon it will be difficult for the teacher keep up with the student.

"I'll go find something more advanced," Una murmurs, slipping into the study off of the parlor.

The Clow girls' voices drift through as she flicks through the sheet music.

"Is Miss Una mad?" Grace sounds worried. "I asked nicely enough, didn't I?"

Una privately allows herself a small smile. She likes being called "Miss Una," for no reason she can explain. But it always makes her feel a little proud to hear it. Like she's a real teacher, even though she's never gone to Queen's.

"You were very polite," Helen assures her. "Remember what Mother said?"

Una's ears perk. Mrs. Clow was talking about her? Now she is curious. Horribly so.

"Right," Grace whispers. "Poor Miss Una."

 _Poor?_ What on Earth are they talking about?

"I'd hate to be jilted," Helen murmurs. "Besides, I think Miss Una is just as pretty as Alice Parker."

 _Just as pretty as - jilted?_ Una nearly drops the big book of piano pieces.

"Mother said that Alice Parker is beautiful," Grace says, a little too loudly ("Sh-h-h!" Helen hushes). "That's why Walter Blythe went away. I like Miss Una, but - "

Well. Una has had quite enough of this. She sweeps in as formidably as she can - which is to say, not very - and presents Grace with the book.

"The songs in here are perhaps more suited to your skill level," she says, a bit coldly. She _isn't_ upset with the girls - hadn't she and Faith childishly repeated gossip to each other, years ago? - and it had been rather nice of Helen to call her pretty - but she has been taken off balance, and the lack of equilibrium makes her stiff. "Please select a piece and learn it for your next lesson."

Grace beams - Una is suddenly reminded of Jerry, the day the teacher had let him skip a reader in class - and lets Helen finish her part. When the girls leave, Una waves them off with her best smile, and then slumps onto the sofa.

So. People have been gossiping about her, as they haven't since she was a girl. Una doesn't even have to wonder what the gossip is saying. She remembers the rumors of her father and Rosemary, and _knows_. Walter Blythe has been back for almost three months, and Una has been to see him nearly every day. She'd been foolish, she supposes, to think no one would notice. And now they are talking.

She presses her fingers to her eyes, trying to calm herself. What would Faith say? Faith would say that it doesn't matter a whit. So would Nan and Di, Una is sure. _Who cares what people say?_ She can hear Faith's voice in her head clear as if her sister was with her. But even repeating those words to herself does not calm her. She hates being talked about. And that people think she has been jilted! It's a horrible blow to her pride.

And then there is the matter of Alice Parker. Una will not allow herself to think about that. It's - it's idiocy, that's all. Walter is Una's friend, no more. It doesn't matter if he and Alice are - involved - for Una only goes to see him as a friend. And if the Mrs. Clows of Glen St. Mary cannot see that, then - then that is their own fault.

To Una's shame, tears begin to leak out, dripping down her fingers. She sighs and allows herself one loud, awful sniffle as she gropes for her handkerchief.

* * *

By the time Rosemary returns, Bruce in tow, Una's managed to dab away the redness around her eyes and compose herself. _Of all the things to cry over_ , she thinks. But then - gossip has always hurt her, the words of others stinging her deeper than her siblings. How ridiculous.

"Oh," Rosemary says when she sees Una in the kitchen, sprinkling salt into the soup. "You've already started dinner."

"Of course," Una says, keeping her eyes on the stove. "I know the Red Cross meeting was today."

"That it was," Rosemary confirms. She comes up to stand next to Una, loops her arm about her waist in a hug. "And you had a lesson with the Clow girls."

"Mmm."

Rosemary is silent for a moment, dropping her arm. "You know, Una," she starts, hesitant. "Now that the school is in its summer vacation, some mothers would like their daughters to learn piano. Would you mind taking on more music lessons? Would you like to?"

Una accidentally tips too much salt into the pot. "Like - you used to?" She thinks of the drawer in her room, the neat collection of coins. All her own money. She could do it, she thinks. Support herself, even a little bit - if anything were to happen, that she should have to. She could teach, make her own way. It would be good.

But then she thinks of Walter, of visiting Ingleside. She would not be able to spend as much time there, and - well. She wants to help him. Wants to be closer to him. But she cannot admit that.

"I don't know if I have time," she says slowly, twirling the ladle as she speaks.

"Nonsense," Rosemary says, gently nudging her elbow. "Aren't there new girls joining the Junior Red Cross?"

This is true; as the war drags on, more and more girls have been coming of age to join the Junior Reds. It is too strange, Una thinks. They had thought their little club wouldn't last a year - and now it seems they will be able to hand it off the younger generation.

"Yes," she admits.

"I don't mean to push," Rosemary says gently, suddenly withdrawing. "I only want you to be happy. And you seem to like giving the lessons. That's all."

"I do like it," Una says. A strange boldness overcomes her, and she nods. "I'll do it."

"My helpful girl," Rosemary says with a smile.

They stand for a while, Rosemary passing Una ingredients, Una tipping them into the bubbling water. Finally, she feels she must ask.

"Rosemary," she begins, feeling awkward. "Does gossip - bother you very much?"

"Hmm," Rosemary says. "I don't like people talking about me any more than most people do - but no, I don't think I've really _minded_ since I was - oh, about your age."

"I hate it," Una says quietly.

Rosemary's hand comes up to rest on her head. "Are people being unkind?" she asks sympathetically.

Una squeezes the ladle so hard for a second she thinks she might snap it in half. "No one has gossiped about me since Jerry - and Faith - and Carl - and I were children," she admits. "They talk about Walter and - my name gets mixed in."

"Ah, my dear," Rosemary murmurs, and doesn't say anything for a moment.

"There's a _war_ happening," Una says, the words beginning to spill out of her, like water boiling over in a pot. "I wish people wouldn't _care_ about - such things."

"It is hard, isn't it," Rosemary sympathizes. "I think all the Clows and Drews and Crawfords - and Douglases," she adds with a chuckle, " - are very tired, and like to be distracted by gossip." She pauses, absentmindedly stroking Una's hair. Though Faith sometimes ducks her head when Rosemary goes to pet her, Una still finds herself taking comfort in it. A wave of love for her stepmother suddenly overtakes her and she feels tears springing to her eyes again. She blinks them back best she can.

"Remember when people used to talk about Carl and little Rilla Blythe?" Rosemary reminds her, and Una has to laugh, using the sound to cover up a sniffle.

"Carl was furious," she recalls. "And Rilla was upset that the gossip was putting off her potential suitors." She pauses, stirring the ladle idly. "I just wish - I could correct it. It's not _true_."

"People forget," Rosemary soothes. "And soon you'll laugh about it. _I_ laugh when I think about how Miss Cornelia tried to give me 'advice' over the gossip about me and your father. Much of that wasn't true, either."

Una wipes her eyes, hoping the movement is inconspicuous. "It will be all right." Hadn't she just repeated those words to Walter a few days ago?

"Wise girl," Rosemary says, tapping her on the head. Una can't help but giggle.

"I'll start on the salad," she says, turning away and missing entirely the contemplative look on Rosemary's face.

* * *

"Everyone's talking," Mary Vance says frankly, when they meet in their usual place. " _I_ told everyone it was pure gossip - don't you worry. _I_ know."

Una sighs, feeling a small knot of a headache forming behind her eyes. "Oh, Mary, don't."

"My, but I always thought you and Shirley'd be the ones to make a match of it," Mary says. "Is that why you're upset? They've gotten it all wrong?"

"No, but - "

"Walter's much too old for you, anyhow," Mary barrels on, as though she has any authority on that matter. "Five years is a big difference, you know, especially with him at university - "

"Three," Una corrects halfheartedly. "It's all - silly, anyway, Mary. You know that."

Mary pauses, eyes softening. "Oh, come here," she says gruffly, grabbing Una and encircling her neck with her arm. "I'm always saying things I oughtn't. It's a d - it's a bad habit. Don't s'pose I'll _ever_ outgrow it. Just that I'm worried," she adds. "Talking 'bout this is easier than - everything else."

"Miller?" Una inquires.

"Ah, not this time," Mary says. "He's pulling through all right - not that I'd expect him to cower," she adds, almost defiantly - as though Una would ever say such a thing. "No, my worries are more commonplace this time 'round - harvest season's coming up and people are _in-sin-u-at-ing_ that we women might take up the work with the men gone - and I'm no stranger to work, but Miss Cornelia thinks I'm above it now, and we had the awfullest argument about it. I tell you, we haven't gotten into it like that since - well, Miller." She heaves a sigh. "And I guess I'm still worried about him, too."

"I know it's hard," Una murmurs, gently stroking Mary's white-blonde hair.

"Do you?" Mary says, and for a moment Una thinks she's been hurt, but there's a wicked twinkle in Mary's eyes. " _Your_ beau's come back."

"Oh, _hush_ ," Una says, but finds the words give her the queerest sensation in her stomach. As though she's falling - or flying.


	16. war stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Firefly episode "War Stories".

Walter wakes up in a strange sort of fog - not quite sure where he is, or where his thoughts are. He hasn't dreamt - or at least he cannot remember his dreams - for which he is grateful. Sun slants in from the window, making the world go orange-red when he tries to close his eyes against the light, burrowing into the covers.

The sheets smell clean, like the outside air - not musty or old. Nan and Di must have beaten them before he arrived. The thought makes him smile; Nan and Di had never been quite used to doing housework.

He rolls over, covering his eyes with his arm. It must be rather late, if the sun is already up. Pain twinges in his shoulders and at the small of his back; the bed isn't quite as comfortable as his own at Ingleside. His body protests when he pushes himself up, but he's figured out the trick, how to brace himself and force himself to sitting. He stays there for a moment, hunched over in the bed, picking at the quilt - Faith's quilt, he reminds himself, and stops pulling at the threads. Then he shakes his head. He has never been fidgety before - likely he's been spending too much time with Una. The Merediths are always in motion - Jerry and Faith running wild, Carl crawling after every manner of insect - and Una tugging at her sleeves, clicking her knitting needles, tucking her hair behind her ears. He supposes he's picked it up from her. Ah, well.

With a grunt, he swings his legs out of bed - his left landing a bit heavily; he has misjudging the distance from the bed to the floor.

His clothes are stiff and starched; Susan had been so excited about him making the trip that she had washed and ironed his shirts _specially_. For a moment, he stands there holding them; the smell of fresh, clean clothes is still strikes him as unfamiliar every now and then. Perhaps it's only being here, away from Ingleside - he feels transplanted, somehow. Just starting to let his roots heal, stretch into the earth again, and now they have been ripped out.

 _It's just for the weekend_ , he scolds himself, washing his face and flattening his hair. He has seen - unspeakable things, things he cannot repeat to anyone, not even Una or Rilla or Di. He has been away from home for nearly two years. Surely a long weekend will not be the thing that breaks him now. Or breaks him further.

He looks oddly vulnerable, he thinks, in his underclothes. His face is still rather hollow, and - have his eyes _always_ looked like that? His skin - deeply tanned from the year and a half outdoors - is finally returning to the near-pallor it had before the war, but the white is marred by pinks and reds, all over his chest and back, curling up his neck, stretching down his leg. Who ever said that scars were romantic? Walter thinks he'd like to have several words with them.

Well. No matter. He rolls the stiffness out of his shoulders best he can and dresses quickly. He realizes he'd forgotten to ask Nan and Di their schedules. They may not even be here.

And he is right, he discovers when he shuffles into the parlor. There is a little note left on the table, pen still lying next to the paper - _Gone to class & then to Red Cross. Left extra key for you. Thinking of dining out, if you don't mind. Love, Di (and Nan)_. The addition in parentheses makes him smile, a bit. He leans down and adds a note of his own: _Went around campus. Will be back for supper. Love, Walter._

* * *

Redmond is almost the same.

Walter has to admit - foolishly, he feels - that in some ways, the place had struck a kind of childlike fear in him. Fear of being called a coward, of finding white feathers tucked into his books when he isn't looking, of all the taunts of "Sissy Blythe" and "Miss Walter" sneaking out of the Glen St. Mary schoolhouse and finding him here, so many years later.

 _It is only a_ place, he reminds himself - the old stone buildings have no power, speak no words. There is nothing to fear. And - he too had followed the Piper's call in the end, hadn't he? There is nothing anyone can say to him now, either. Yet he still feels the old, familiar trepidation when he arrives.

The campus is predictably near vacant; only a handful of students are milling round the green, talking and laughing. They look at him oddly when he passes them by - with his cane and his drawn face, he must look a stranger to these laughing youths. They'd never believe he was one of them, for those scant few months before any man who hadn't joined up was a shirker.

The old 'hallowed halls' are much the same as well. The recruitment posters are mostly gone - for who is there to recruit, now? Still a few remain, albeit defaced with the names of 'slackers' - _Ted McKenzie, this means you_ is scrawled across the top of one. But they have mostly been replaced by urges to ration, to join the Red Cross, to do their part in defeating the Huns. And tacked up against them are the usual advertisements of clubs and parties, rooms for rent. Walter almost marvels at how easily the two worlds seem to mingle for these students.

He finds himself wandering through the halls of the English department - drawn to his old haunt, he supposes. Even with all the worries and fears, he had still thrilled a bit when he had set foot in the hallway covered with poetry from the masters and the as-of-yet unknown students who aspired - like him - to be great.

 _And how many of those students are in the trenches?_ he wonders. He tries to shake away the thought. It would be nice, he thinks, to make it through the day without thinking of the war. But then, perhaps that is impossible.

He pauses in front of one of the announcement boards, then blinks in shock. There is his photo - an old photo; it looks like it had been taken at a gathering of literature students, before he had fallen from Dr. Milne's favor - and next to it, a clipping of "The Piper."

"Looking at yourself?" comes a teasing voice.

Walter turns to see Alice there, smiling at him. She's carrying several books in her arms, and he moves to take them.

"Oh, don't worry about these," she says quickly. "I've gotten used to them."

"They're nothing compared to sandbags," he says, tucking as many as he can under his arm. It feels good, too, to carry the books. Purposeful.

"If you say so," she says, her smile falling a bit. "How heavy _are_ sandbags?"

"Rather," he says.

"Don't you remember," she says, "how you couldn't lift the lid to the trunk in the cellar without my help? When we were children?"

Walter allows a short laugh, then sighs. "I am not quite that boy anymore, Alice."

"No, I suppose not," she says. "Not in the least because you were twelve. But - " she tilts her head at him. "I think - you're not so different. I think that boy - even a bit of him - survived."

Walter turns to look at her. People have always talked about him and Alice - and he supposes that he did think about her in that way, on occasion. She is lovely, and Walter has written more than one sonnet - though he'd burned them before he left - that describes her almost exactly. But now - she is just Alice, Alice with her kind smile and eyes and words, Alice who has been his friend since the day she'd smiled at him in the face of Fred Johnson's mockery. That is all.

"I know," he says, for he has already heard those words, from someone else.

* * *

They end up eating out at a cafe they had passed many times, when they had first moved to Kingsport. "Isn't it _romantic_?" Nan had sighed, when they first saw it. "It's quite easy to fall in love in a cafe, isn't it?"

"I don't believe you and Jerry have ever been to a cafe together in your lives!" Di had said, and they had laughed. Well - perhaps Walter hadn't, wound with fear and nerves as he had been.

But they are here now, crowded in amongst several groups of students, chattering over their food, Nan attempting to subtly steal Di's dessert from her plate.

"We used to hold Red Cross meetings here, before the group got too big," Di says, stabbing a berry that has fallen off of her slice of pie. "The pie isn't quite as good as Susan's, _but_ …"

Walter is distracted by shouting from outside. "What's going on?"

"Probably a fight," Nan sighs. "There's always someone rowdy hanging round - because it's so close to the university, you know."

"Oh, it's just Arthur Baker," Di says, peering out. "People are always yelling at him. He could probably make a lovely coat out of all the white feathers he's received in the last three years."

Something flashes up in Walter - at first a slight irritation, then something deeper, something he knows well - the odd fury that coils in his muscles, winding him till he tackles Dan Reese in the schoolyard, till he goes over the top at dawn. He grips his fork till his knuckles turn white.

Then just as suddenly it dissipates, leaving behind only a horrid exhaustion, and a wondering why people must be this way.

"Walter?" Di asks, peering at him.

"Hm? Nothing," he says, taking another bite of his pudding. "Only - thinking."

They leave shortly afterward - soon enough that Arthur Baker is still picking himself up from the ground, pale-faced, dusting himself off. He turns his head as they hurry past, and for a second he seems to recognize Walter - then he turns away and they walk off, in separate directions.

* * *

Night has fallen, a hush over the little house. Not as silent as Ingleside, true - there is still the rumble of automobile engines, the bursts of laughter from students walking him - for many of them rent on this street, he has learned.

Nan and Di have already retired to bed; they had gone casting worried looks over their shoulders as he assured them that he wasn't tired yet.

He _isn't_ tired - or rather, he isn't ready to fall asleep and dream.

The kettle begins to whistle and he hurries to turn off the gas before it wakes his sisters up. There's something comforting in brewing tea, in steeping the leaves and watching their color swirl into the water.

"Walter?"

Di shuffles in, looking rather like a ghost in her white nightdress. Well, perhaps not a ghost - she is too vibrant, with her freckles and red hair. Una Meredith, though, she would look like a ghost, sometimes looks like one even in the daytime - but why is he thinking about her?

"Di." He blinks, surprised - Di and Nan usually sleep through the night. Then again, he used to, as well. "Did I wake you?"

"No," she says. "I couldn't sleep. Is there enough for two?" she asks, peering at the kettle.

"Mm."

When Di is done brewing her own cup, they settle at the table, facing each other, teacups clasped between their hands.

"So," Di says, softly.

"So."

"Oh, Walter," Di says. "I'm so - tired. Won't you talk to me?"

Walter stares down into his cup, at the dark circle of leaves that have settled on the bottom. "About the war?" He knows he doesn't really have to ask.

"Yes." Her voice trembles, a little.

"It's not so simple." His voice trembles too. "Life was quite good to us, wasn't it? I don't think - if I hadn't gone myself, I wouldn't have been able to understand." He tilts the cup, watches the leaves fall over each other. "We're growing up, aren't we, Di? We don't - we can't - share everything, anymore."

Di sips her tea, peering at him over the rim of the cup. "No," she admits. "I suppose not. But Walter, we'll always be siblings - and _chums_. Even if I can't understand - I still want to know."

Walter can't help but smile a little. Always practical, Di is.

"Do you remember when I fought Dan Reese?" he asks quietly.

"Who could forget?" Di says.

"It was like something came over me," he admits. "I _wanted_ to fight him. I wanted to hurt him. It was horrible."

Di's eyes widen but she nods, indicating he should go on.

"That's how I felt at the front," he says. "I wasn't afraid anymore - I was so sure of myself, sure there was nothing to fear. But Di - the way things are, 'somewhere in France.' And the things I did - " he shrugs, not knowing how to continue that line of thought. "There's so much to tell and - so much of it is unpleasant - and it doesn't always make sense." The thoughts, too, are so tangled - he spills them out this way to Una, leaves it to her to unravel them, but Di needs coherency, logic.

Di hesitates, then reaches over to grasp his hands. "It's all right, Walter."

He inhales, and then he begins.


	17. more affection than you know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Passion"/"Sanctuary" by Utada Hikaru. "More grown up, more lonely" is taken from the title of an album by Milk@Coffee.

Una is busy the day Walter returns. She has fallen headfirst into her new role of piano teacher, with six pupils now instead of two. The day of his return, Monday, is also the day of her four new students' first lessons, and she doesn't have a moment to go to the train station or up to Ingleside, though Rilla had invited her.

 _Oh, well_ , she thinks, absentmindedly tilting Beatrice Crawford's wrists so that she won't hurt them playing. It's just as well - a few days apart will perhaps quiet gossipy tongues. Of course, half the town already thinks that Walter has gone to Redmond to see Alice Parker, leaving Una jilted. There is no beneficial outcome - no possible victory. Una has learned quite a bit about strategy these past few years.

Oh, well.

She likes her new charges well enough. Susan Baker had warned her of all of them, naturally - "There's nothing _wrong_ with Beatrice Crawford, but her skull's thick as - " (here she had paused for lack of a good analogy), "Catherine Drew's not a bad sort, but she's still a _Drew_ ", "Rose Lewison is sweet now, but she's a flighty thing and that will get her into plenty of trouble once she grows up", "I don't believe Vera Martin has a lick of sense in her - her mother certainly doesn't", and so on until Una had to excuse herself to keep from laughing. Nobody, she has discovered, can live up to Susan Baker's estimations.

Still, for all their faults, both Susan-anticipated and not, they are good enough girls, and behave themselves under her rule. The Clow girls even greet her in church now, twisting in their seats to wave from their pews. Una cannot help but feel a glow of pride.

So the days pass. The next few are busy as well, and soon it has been a week. Bruce is home now, too - he spends his days in Rainbow Valley or running through town with his friends ( _will_ the minister's children ever escape their rowdy reputation?), but other days Una must entertain him.

Letters from Jerry and Carl arrive one day - the Americans are training now and they expect to be fighting alongside them in a month or so. Una shivers. For so long, it has been the same countries fighting with each other, becoming so tired that she thought perhaps they would simply give up. But now - it feels like the early days of the war all over again, when new countries were joining by the minute, hundreds of thousands of men ready to fight to the last.

 _Maybe this will be the push_ , she tries to reassure herself. _Maybe this will be what ends the war_.

She wishes it were easier to believe.

* * *

She finally gets a day away - away from her mending, from lessons, from duties. 1917 is halfway over, she realizes as she hurries up to Ingleside. Rilla had called her and Una had said yes, yes this time she'll come. She'd nearly forgotten her hat and coat in her haste, stopping short on the path and spinning on her heel back to the manse like a character in one of Bruce's cartoon books.

Walter is on the porch when she arrives. She slows when she sees him - his eyes are closed, head tipped back against the house. For all that he has changed, he is so handsome, still, and Una feels the same falling sensation that she felt that first time she saw him, ten years ago.

Oh, _well_.

"Walter," she says, and his eyes open. They cloud for a moment and then clear, and then he sees her, lips tilting in a smile.

"Una." Is - is he saying her name differently?

He scrambles to his feet and they end up walking together through Rainbow Valley. Una can see why Jem and Faith had liked to tryst there - away from the road, away from all the prying eyes. Not that she and Walter are anything like Jem and Faith.

"You seem - well," she says, tentatively. He is not - not as he was before, certainly - Una suspects he never will be, just as she was never quite the same after her mother - and he has seen so much more. But he seems calmer, more at peace. His silence feels contemplative, not withdrawn.

"I am…at the moment," he says, slowly. He gives a rueful smile. "I don't wish to ruin it. I think perhaps it will carry me through the week, and then - well."

"Or perhaps it will remain," Una suggests. He does not protest. She peers at him. "How was your trip?"

"Good," he says. "I patched things up - a bit - with Di and Nan. It's strange," he sighs. "A new sort of understanding, I suppose. We're adults now, and we can't always be - as we were, when we were children."

"'More grown up, more lonely,'" Una quotes. At Walter's glance, she hastens to explain: "My father had a book that said that, once. Er - it's a translation."

"Do you think it's true?"

People rarely ask Una what she thinks, and she stumbles a little, trying to sort her thoughts. Walter's hand comes up to steady her, then he draws back.

"In a way," she says slowly, thinking of the way she and Jerry and Faith and Carl have all drifted apart. Oh, they will always love each other, but they are no longer bound together by their motherless childhood, standing together against the gossipy tongues of their neighbors. Their paths have split and - and it is all right. "I suppose I never thought we'd all end up so far from each other ."

"I didn't, either," Walter admits.

"I suppose you wouldn't," Una says, then flushes at how - bitter she had sounded. It is only - how jealous she had been of the Blythes, as a child - how badly she had wanted the loving completeness of their family for her own.

"No," Walter says softly, and Una knows that he has noticed. "We always seemed quite - untouchable." He casts a glance at her. "You knew better, I think."

"Perhaps," Una murmurs. "But - it couldn't be helped." The words come out awkwardly, as though she has a mouth full of marbles, her vindication warring with her desire to be gentle with him.

"It was - good, though. To talk to her. And Rilla, and my parents."

"You spoke to them?" Una says, startled.

"A bit," he says. He peers at her, something soft in his eyes. "They don't - quite understand. Not like you. But it's a start. It feels better, for now."

 _Not like you_. The words send something fluttering deep within her, and she knots her fingers in her sleeves to keep them from shaking.

"I'm glad, then," she tells him. She thinks of his stories of Redmond, of white feathers and cruel notes, and decides not to ask of such things.

He brings it up on his own, though. "I saw Arthur Baker," he says.

Una blinks. "Is he related to Susan?"

Walter laughs, and looks at her so fondly and familiarly that Una finds herself blushing. "Not at all," he says. His face turns serious again. "I shouldn't be laughing. He was one of my fellow slackers, at school."

Una doesn't know what to say. What does she know of such things, of social politics outside the little Glen school? "Oh?" is all she can muster.

"He didn't go," Walter says. "It seems that he is braver than I."

"No," Una says quickly, so forcefully she surprises herself. "That - that isn't the case at all, Walter."

"He stood firm in his convictions," Walter says. "I can't say the same. I was afraid of being called a coward, so I went. Perhaps that was the true cowardice."

"You went because you wanted to protect us," Una says. "Because - because you decided that was more important than your fear. Walter, there's nothing cowardly about that."

"I wasn't brave enough to stand by what I believed."

"Do you think it's cowardice every time someone changes their mind, then?" Una says, and then stops short at the passion in her voice. She puts a hand to her face, sheepish. "Are we - are we _arguing_?"

Walter hangs his head, his cheeks turning pink. "I believe it could be called debating."

Una can't help but smile, but lets it fall away. "What really happened?"

Walter is silent for a moment, then he sighs. "I let people hurt him," he admits. "I didn't offer him help or comfort. I was - I resented him, I suppose. I was angry that he had the courage to be unswayed by letters and white feathers while I didn't. And I was angry that he's so safe, still. He will never know what so many of us live with. If we do live."

Una suddenly remembers Faith coming home after school, excitedly telling her of Walter's fight with Dan Reese - "Una, I never know Walter could look like that. I thought he was going to break one of Dan's bones, truly - but it was quite _thrilling_." Una can see that there is nothing thrilling about this for Walter. Perhaps he fears his quiet anger, fears that he is contributing to the world's ugliness instead of its beauty.

But she does not have the words to say that, and instead she moves to take his hand. "I'm sorry."

Walter only nods, but his eyes are gentle, and he squeezes her hand and lets her help him up the incline.

They have ended up on the path to the manse, she realizes. As though he's walking her home. It's a nice thought, even if it is - foolish. She is dangerously close, she thinks, to letting herself want this, to pinning her hopes on Walter Blythe.

 _Would it be so bad?_ she wonders, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. To her surprise, sometimes he is looking back, and she finds herself flushing and looking away. What if - what if he does care for her, beyond friendship? Is it such an impossible thing?

It frightens her, though. If she gives her whole life to the hope that he might - might _love_ her - and he does not? Her world has crumbled around her twice. A third time would be unbearable.

"Rilla says people are talking," he says as they come to the gate of the manse. His voice is light - too light. Strained, almost. The sun is going down, shadows lengthening over the Methodist graveyard. Late night birds have settled in on the branches of Una's favorite tree.

"Yes," she mutters, feeling her face warm again. "It's - ridiculous."

Walter looks taken aback, as though he were expecting a different answer from her. "Yes. Well. I only meant to say that - I'm sorry if my visits have been making things awkward for you."

"No," Una says, quicker than she intends to. "People always talk. And - " she smiles a little at the memories " - I'm quite used to it, you know."

Walter smiles at that too, and they stand in silence for a while, watching the sky turn pink and red, the clouds becoming gold.

"I used to want to be buried here," Una murmurs, almost unconsciously. She doesn't realize that she has said it out loud until Walter speaks.

"Una."

She turns and Walter reaches out to touch her face. His skin is rough and callused - not the soft poet's hands he used to have, before - but his touch is still gentle, fingertips brushing against the shell of her ear. And he is _looking_ at her, eyes traveling over her face, as though he's just discovering her.

She stands quite still, afraid to move. For a second she has the horrible - wonderful - thought that perhaps he might kiss her. But then she feels his fingers move, and he brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Then he drops his hand and moves away, and she feels an odd lightheadedness.

"Goodnight, Una," he says.

She manages to wait until she is alone in her little white room before she presses a pillow to her face and lets out a strangled, muffled cry.


	18. shield these eyes no more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Landsailor" by Vienna Teng.

Monday dawns a bright gray, the sky almost white. Nan and Di go with him to the train station, and when they part, they cling to him for an extra few moments.

"Thank you for talking to me," Di whispers.

"Thank you for listening," Walter says back, his voice thick.

Nan nearly crushes him in her embrace, her eyes bright with tears. " _Please_ feel better, Walter." It is, he knows, her way of being kind. And oddly, he finds that it doesn't sting.

"I do," he says. "A bit."

When the train pulls away, he twists to watch the tall buildings of Kingsport shrink in the distance. He'd like to return, he thinks. It will be different, and it will be strange, but - he will be all right. He can feel it.

Still, it will be good to return to Ingleside, let himself rest in the familiar surroundings and people. He will tell Rilla and Mother and Dad - and yes, even Susan. They deserve to know who he is, now.

 _Una will be proud_ , he thinks, smiling a little at the thought. It will be - good, too, that she will not have bear the weight of his confessions alone. It will be good to see her again. Redmond seems almost like another world, one of ambitions and competition, everyone in constant movement. He can't quite picture Una there, and the thought causes an odd pang. It will never be easy, he thinks, to leave people behind. He has learned that, too.

* * *

No one is there to meet him at the train station, and he finds that he prefers it that way. It feels normal, the way things used to be. He is glad that his family is beginning to let him alone - glad that he is no longer causing them so much worry. Perhaps it was best that he had gone for a few days, let them slip back into their old routines for a bit.

The road into town is quite crowded, children out of school and running amok, people working their farms and gardens. To Walter's surprise, most of them are women - then he feels ridiculous for being surprised. Of course they are women. Most of the men are gone. Some of them wave - Elder Clow, riding past in his buggy (no newfangled automobiles for him, no thank you) offers to bring him to Ingleside. Walter declines; he'd rather walk. The distance will be hard on his leg, but - that is the price he has paid, and he doesn't wish to shirk it.

He sees Mother first, kneeling in her garden, face hidden by her old, wide-brimmed hat - a hat Rilla abhorred, and had been trying to make Mother throw out for years. The memory brings a smile to his face.

"You're back!"

Rilla appears in the doorway, beaming madly. She must have been watching from the window, he realizes. Mother's head snaps up and then she stands to greet him.

"We thought you weren't coming back before evening," she says, holding him then pulling back and searching his eyes, as though he might have some horrible reason for returning early.

"Nan and Di are busy," he explains. "There was an early train, so - here I am."

"Here you are," Mother repeats, holding his face between her hands. Then she lets him go and smiles. "Well! How was your trip? And how _are_ Nan and Di? They don't write or call nearly as often as I'd like."

"They're well," he says. "Busy."

"I was worried," Mother says softly. "You and Di didn't quite seem like the _chums_ you used to be, when she visited."

Walter grasps his mother's hands for a moment, not sure what to tell her. It is never easy for parents to learn that their children are changed. "We've grown up, Mother."

"I know," she says, then sighs. "I suppose I'm being silly. Go in, then. Susan's made lunch."

Rilla grabs him as soon as he makes it to the doorway, looping her arm through his and leading him to the kitchen. "I'm so glad you're back," she chirps. "It was too strange with you gone. Like - before." For a moment, her face falls and Walter can see what his brief absence has meant to her.

"Hello, Susan," Walter says, feeling awkward. _Will_ he and Susan ever be able to talk the way they used to? Would she ever sit and listen, as Di and Nan had? Perhaps not. Perhaps he must accept that there are some things she cannot ever fully come to terms with. Perhaps he must forgive her that.

"I'll set lunch out," Susan says in response, and Walter can tell by the briskness of her voice that she has missed him, too. "Better girls I have never seen nor ever will see - besides you, Rilla - but Nan and Di have never mastered the stove, and I trust you'd like to eat. Here, I kept your mail for you," Susan adds, placing a thick stack of envelopes on the table and bustling out with the plates. Most of them are circulars, Walter finds, picking them up and flipping through them. Alice had told him a little bit about "The Piper"'s spread - how the entire university had thrilled over one of their own reaching such prominence, how it was read at all the recruitment and Red Cross meetings, how Nan, Di, Faith, and Alice had briefly become the most popular girls on campus for knowing the author. _Too strange_.

There is one piece of mail in particular that he is looking for - and there it is, tucked between a letter from Ken and a check from some American magazine. He pulls it out, feeling a flutter of nerves in his stomach - the feeling so strong that it startles him - as he undoes the envelope, fingers shaking.

Rilla must see some sort of shift on his face, for she comes over and props her chin on his shoulder. "What's that?" she asks.

"I sent a poem to the _Nation_ a few weeks ago," Walter says slowly, still staring at the paper. For the first time he realizes the enormity of the decision. Everyone will know what he has done, what their sons and fathers and brothers are doing. "They accepted it."

"That's good," Rilla says carefully, peering at him. "Isn't it?"

"Yes," he says. "I think." He pauses. "I'd like you to read it. You, and Mother, and Susan - and Dad, when he gets back. If you'd like."

"Of course," Rilla says, looking slightly confused. Walter passes her the envelope, wherein the original copy of "The Aftermath" has been returned to him. Rilla takes it, eyes scanning the page. Then she pauses, eyes flicking back to the top, and she rereads. Slower. The little, unconscious smile on her face falls away.

"Oh, Walter," she says quietly.

"It's not - all my own," he tries to explain. "I never bayoneted - anyone - "

"But you saw," Rilla says. "Enough to write this. Oh, Walter," she repeats, and wraps her arms around him. Walter leans against her shoulder, surprised not to feel the wetness of tears on his shirt, or the sound of sobs, surprised that he has no urge to cry or run either.

They remain that way for a while, dry-eyed in their sorrow and sympathy.

* * *

He feels a little guilty, when he does show it to them - the next day, when he has worked up enough nerve. Mother and Susan both cry - Susan doesn't even bother calling it "poetry nonsense," which startles him more than anything - and hold him. Gertrude Oliver, who has come up from Lowbridge to discuss the newspaper, tells him that, for all its subject matter, it is the finest thing he has written. Dad goes white to his lips but then says, stiffly, that he's proud.

They have never really understood each other, Gilbert and himself, Walter thinks. Jem has always been closer to Dad, similar in their practical and curious ways, - even Shirley, having received Grandfather Blythe's temperament, does not find their father distant and confusing. Walter is - is too dreamy, too prone to thought instead of action, speaking in poetry instead of prose. The mixture of pride and knowing sorrow on Gilbert's face cracks something open in Walter's heart that he hadn't known was sealed.

"At least it is nothing that Shirley will have to face, the blessed boy," Susan says, as they are gathered round in the parlor. "I've always held that flying - for all its ridiculousness - was the lesser of two evils."

Walter has heard of pilots shot down mere days into their service, mere moments after rising into the air from the battlefield - but he holds his tongue.

"Norman Douglas won't be pleased to read it," Dad says, with a little smile. "But then, he hasn't any boys at the front."

"If he had gone himself, the war would've been over by Christmas like they'd said," Ms. Oliver says with a laugh.

Walter clears his throat. "Could we - perhaps - talk of something else?" The words come out more easily than he had expected them to.

They all seem to shift uncomfortably, then acquiesce. The topic turns to town gossip, and - alarmingly - Una Meredith.

"Where _is_ Una?" Walter asks. "I haven't heard from her." This bothers him, somehow - he would have liked to see her, he supposes.

"Busy," Mother says, more gently than the news seems to warrant. "Half the girls in the Glen are taking music lessons, and Rosemary has passed the responsibility to her."

"She's awful thin," Susan clucks. "I don't like the looks of her. We _did_ think John Meredith woke up a bit after marrying Rosemary, but - "

"Oh, Susan," Mother interrupts, darting a glance at Walter and Rilla. "Una is their friend. She's always been a little thing."

"I'm sure she'll be by soon," Rilla says, not looking up from her stitching. "I asked her up yesterday, but she has lessons all week, she said."

"I do hope she isn't working herself too hard," Mother murmurs. "Isn't she still in your little Red Cross?"

"Ye-e-es," Rilla says, a bit peevishly - Walter knows she still detests being called _little_. "But I'm _sure_ she'll make time to come up."

"Rilla," Mother warns.

"Oh, let her go, Anne-girl," Dad says. "If she ends up gossiping as much as Cornelia Elliot, it'll be her own fault."

"Gossiping?" Walter asks, not quite following this conversation.

"Half the town expects you and Una Meredith to make a match of it," Susan says in a matter-of-fact tone, as though she too is expecting it, or at least is not surprised by the idea in the least. "As well they might - you two have been seeing each other rather often, I think. Although - " she adds contemplatively, " _is_ it quite well for so many pairs of siblings to be married, Dr. dear?"

"I daresay it's safe enough, although the family reunions would become rather monotonous," Dad says, his voice teasing. "But leave the poor boy alone - I don't think there's anything to it."

Rilla doesn't say anything, her eyes darting between the grown-ups and Walter, watching for some sort of reaction.

Walter doesn't quite know what to say - he feels strangely indignant - so he merely turns back to his book, not quite seeing the words on the page in front of him.

* * *

The week slips away, and Walter feels oddly - normal. Things are easier, his family gentler. And he has letters from Jem, Ken, Shirley, Jerry, Carl - even Bertie Shakespeare Drew, of all people. They are all safe. None of them have "gone west" (unless something has happened, between now and when they wrote those letters - but no, he won't let himself think of that).

It will go away, soon, he knows. Nothing lasts. Another dispatch from a photographer in the Toronto papers that will eventually make its way to the Glen, another outburst from Norman Douglas in church - somewhere beyond his peace, he feels a tension, a certainty that he must brace himself for whatever comes next.

But for now, it is all right.

He finds himself on the veranda, like always. It is easier out here, in the quiet of the countryside - the clean air, the only sounds being of birds and people on the road. The bustle of the house, the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen, the stream of visitors for Mother and Susan and Rilla - it is too much at times.

"Walter."

He blinks, eyes opening to the blue sky. For a moment, it seems too bright - blinding in the face of his reverie - but then he blinks again and adjusts.

Una Meredith is standing across from him, and he feels his mouth lift into a smile. It _is_ good to see her - he feels something warm inside himself.

"Una," he says, and he wants to say something else - _hello, how are you_ , perhaps - but the words die in his throat. They seem so little, somehow, for the contentedness he suddenly feels. Instead, he lifts himself to his feet and joins her at the edge of the porch. It feels right to be at her side, to walk with her to Rainbow Valley. Susan's words from the other night suddenly come to mind, and he banishes them quickly.

They walk farther into the valley, till the road is hidden by trees and the only sound is the whisper of the brook and the chirping of birds, the hitch of Una's breath when her dress catches on an unexpected root. _This would be a wonderful poem_ , he thinks.

It is not, he realizes, a thought that would have crossed his mind, years ago. How lofty, how ridiculous, his own standards used to be: poems written to golden ideals, infatuations that he had been content to pine for. Una, he knows, hardly fits into that category, plain as Miss Cornelia is wont to describe her - but then, neither does he nowadays, bent and broken and healed by turns at his odd angles. Another folly of youth.

"You seem - well," she offers, as they come to the White Lady, tall and still despite the masses of leaves on the fine bones of her branches. Like Una, Walter thinks - pale and thin, but upright and unbending.

"I am…at the moment," he says. It is true, or true enough. He doesn't wish to tell her about the fragile peace in the house - afraid of putting a jinx on it, perhaps. "I don't wish to ruin it. I think perhaps it will carry me through the week, and then - well."

"Or perhaps it will remain," Una says, turning to look at him. Her eyes are gentle - it is not a correction or a scolding, and for that Walter does not argue.

She asks about his trip, and he finds the words come easily. "Good. I patched things up - a bit - with Di and Nan. It's strange - a new sort of understanding, I suppose. We're adults now, and we can't always be - as we were, when we were children." He knows Una understands his meaning. He and Di had always gone off with each other in the Rainbow Valley days, their partnership as expected as Jerry and Jem, Nan and Faith - and Una somewhere in the background ( _perhaps with Shirley_ , some part of his consciousness reminds him, and the thought feels a bit sour).

"'More grown up, more lonely' - my father had a book that said that, once," she says, her face turning a bit pink when he looks at her. "It's a translation," she adds, although Walter has to admit to himself that he had found nothing wrong with the syntax - a year and a half in the trenches with men who had never completed even the First Reader will do that, he supposes.

"Do you think that's true?" he asks, wondering. Una, with her quiet hurts, revealed to him only after so many years of knowing her - the words likely rang true for her far earlier than they have for him.

Before she can respond, she trips slightly, and unthinkingly, he reaches out to steady her. For a moment he is too close to her, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. He has touched her before, held her hand and felt the softness over the bones of her wrist, but for the first time it sends something nervous and excited through him. He pulls away.

"In a way," she says, in answer to his question. "I suppose I never thought we'd all end up so far from each other."

"I didn't, either," Walter admits.

"I suppose you wouldn't," Una says, an uncharacteristic sarcasm in her voice. Walter suddenly sees the family resemblance between her and Jerry.

It is true, though, he knows. He never quite understood how everyone else missed the look in Una's eyes when she used to come to Ingleside to spend the night with Nan and Di. It had been too quiet and accepting to truly be jealous or hateful, but he had seen her longing all the same, when Susan gave Jem his special napkin ring or acquiesced to Rilla's insistence that she not eat from the chipped plate. It had made him vaguely uncomfortable when they were younger - Faith and Jerry and Carl had never made him feel quite so _conscious_ of all he had - but he understands, now.

"No," he says. "We always seemed quite - untouchable. You knew better, I think."

Una shakes her head, blushing again. "Perhaps. But - it couldn't be helped."

"It was - good, though," he continues, sensing her discomfort. "They don't - quite understand. Not like you. But it's a start. It feels better, for now."

"I'm glad, then," she says, giving him a small smile, and _that_ does something strange to his nerves, too.

"I saw Arthur Baker," he says - more to distract himself; he doesn't expect her to know who he is.

"Is he related to Susan?" she asks, and that makes him laugh, for he has never considered a relation between the two before. He somehow can't picture Susan wanting to be related to anyone like Arthur, but the thought amuses more than it hurts.

"Not at all," he tells her. Then he sighs, reality returning to him. "I shouldn't be laughing. He was one of my fellow slackers, at school."

"Oh?"

"He didn't go," Walter says, feeling the weight of his doubts beginning to press on him again. "It seems that he is braver than I." _Coward, shirker - and what have you to show for it?_

" _No_ ," Una says, and Walter is surprised by the conviction in her voice. "That - that isn't the case at all, Walter."

"He stood firm in his convictions," Walter argues. "I can't say the same. I was afraid of being called a coward, so I went. Perhaps that was the true cowardice."

"You went because you wanted to protect us," Una says, speaking faster than he's ever heard her talk. "Because - because you decided that was more important than your fear. Walter, there's nothing cowardly about that."

"I wasn't brave enough to stand by what I believed," he says, wishing he could make her see - the hurt he has inflicted upon himself - the sting of knowing that he made his choice, and he will never be sure if it is the right one. Of being a fool.

"Do you think it's cowardice every time someone changes their mind, then?" Una asks so fiercely that Walter is taken aback. She seems surprised at herself, and presses a hand to her face for a moment. "Are - are we _arguing_?" she asks, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

The tension is broken, and Walter almost laughs, for it does seem fairly ridiculous. He rarely argues, and he has never known Una to do so. And certainly he never imagined that they would have such a spirited conversation with each other. "I believe it could be called debating," he says.

Una becomes serious, asking gently, "What really happened?"

He sighs. Where to begin? Arthur's naïveté, his own foolishness, the chasm between those who went and those who did not - he is not sure he can explain it even to himself. Still, he tries. "I let people hurt him. I didn't offer him help or comfort. I was - I resented him, I suppose." _Perhaps I even felt he deserved it._ "I was angry that he had the courage to be unswayed by letters and white feathers while I didn't. And I was angry that he's so safe, still. He will never know what so many of us live with. If we do live." _If we don't end up lining the trenches in lieu of sandbags, or thrown in wagons but slipping off into the mud_. So many things Arthur Baker has escaped - what, then, are harsh words or white feathers in comparison?

But what does that make him, that he can hold such a conviction?

He is shaken out of his thoughts by Una's hand slipping into his, pressing their palms together. "I'm sorry," she says, simply.

Words stick in his throat, so he nods and they climb the incline that leads to the manse. He doesn't know what he wants to say, and small talk has never been his way nor hers. So they walk in silence. He cannot help but look at her every now and then. In the absence of conversation, Susan's words have come back to rattle around in his head. _Half the town expects you and Una Meredith to make a match of it_.

A year ago, he would have called that one of the most ridiculous things he'd ever heard. Una, his childhood playmate, who had grown up so plain and shy, fading into the background of his life as he went on to Queen's and Lowbridge and Redmond and she had remained behind in the Glen. She had been surprising in her sweetness, at times, in her delicacy that always reminded him of the tea roses that bloomed in Mother's garden; they always needed especial care not to be choked by the other flowers. But that is all.

Now - now, he does not know what to call it. 'Ridiculous' would be an insult, he thinks, to Una - Una, who knows him better than anyone now, who has trusted him with her own hidden stories in return for helping bear his weight. Una, with her sweet smile and quiet voice, the little wrinkles around her eyes that appear during her rare moments of laughter. He is surprised at himself for remembering these things about her.

Are they seeing something he is not? Sometimes, when he turns to look at her, she is already looking back. She had written to him first, he remembers, when he was at Redmond.

Walter shakes his head, but the thoughts will not go away. It's all too - confusing, and the questions press against him almost physically - he swears he can feel them against his skin, close to bursting.

"Rilla says people have been talking," he says, trying to keep his voice light, carefree. They have come to the gate of the manse and stop, lingering.

Una takes a step back from him, late afternoon shadow shifting across her face, obscuring her expression for a moment. "Yes," she mumbles, not meeting his eyes. "It's - ridiculous."

Walter feels oddly stung by this. "Yes. Well. I only meant to say that - I'm sorry if my visits have been making things awkward for you."

"No," Una says quickly, and Walter feels that strange warmth again. "People always talk - and I'm quite used to it, you know." Her lips quirk and Walter finds that his do too, in memory of the Meredith's children unsupervised upbringing.

They lapse into silence again, turning to watching the sun go down, turning the trees to silhouettes, the crosses of the Methodist headstones thrown into stark relief. The strange light of sunset catches at the hairs that have escaped from Una's braid and pins, turning the black to red and gold.

"I used to want to be buried here," Una says, so softly that he's not sure he was meant to hear it. She is not looking at him, her eyes instead drifting over a hollow covered by a weeping birch's curtain.

Walter is not quite sure what overcomes him, in this moment. Perhaps it is the seriousness of her face and voice, that she is sharing this with him. He says her name and she turns, eyes wide, blue almost black in the fading light.

His hand comes up to touch her face, and she does not move away. He does not know what he is searching for, in her face - in her sad, wistful eyes, under the straight, dark brows that make her look so serious, in the flat line between her pale lips. He could kiss her, he thinks - and then is surprised at the thought; it makes him feel so awkward that he thinks he must do something, break the stillness.

He finds a strand of hair curling about her shoulder and tucks it behind her ear, stepping back as politely as the situation can allow.

"Goodnight, Una."

He is not sure how he makes it back to Ingleside so quickly with his leg, but he returns in time for Susan's ration biscuits, letting Rilla's chatter and Jims's short, immaturely formed sentences flow over his thoughts and drown them.

They resurface, though, as he washes his face and prepares for sleep. Walter does not rest well that night, but for once it is not for nightmares.


	19. you talk to me in siren song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Liar, Liar" by A Fine Frenzy.

Waking up is not easy for Una, this day. She lies in bed for a moment, then presses her hands to her face. Her head aches, and so does her heart. Oh, when did life become so confusing? She thinks she'd like to roll over and sleep until things make sense again.

But that will not happen, she knows. For once, she is at the center of things, the eye of this strange storm. No one can fix this for her.

She tries not to cry at the thought.

Rosemary gives her a sharp glance when Una trips into the dining room, eyes swollen from lack of sleep.

"Good morning," Rosemary says, the end rising like a question.

"Good morning," Una murmurs. "Where are Father and Bruce?"

"Your father's gone to bury one of the Crawfords over-harbor, and Bruce has left early," Rosemary says, pouring her a glass of milk. "He and little Jimmy MacAllister want to see if they can catch the birds nesting near the Upper Glen road before school begins."

Una nods, feeling a bit too fuzzy to really think about her family's activities. "Oh."

"You stayed out later than usual last night," Rosemary remarks, passing her a plate of potatoes. "Did you get enough sleep?"

No, Una had not gotten enough sleep. First she had lain awake, thinking of the things Walter had said, the way he had looked at her - the memories more vivid than any film she had ever seen in Charlottetown, full of color and sound. Finally she had slept - but then she dreamed, lovely and horrible dreams of poems and gray eyes and the touch of Walter's hand, and then odd ones of Maywater and her siblings and parents, and then even stranger ones of cats carrying suitcases overseas to France, all interrupted by fits and starts of wakefulness.

Still, she smiles at Rosemary and digs into her breakfast, trying to think of all she must do. Piano lessons when school is over, that is a given every day except Sundays, rolling bandages to send overseas - she'll do that before the school lets out - and choir practice at the church, where she accompanies on the piano. Little time to call or be called on - she's not sure if she's relieved or not. She is so close to some sort of edge, close to falling off - close to having what she wants.

What would she say, anyway? Una has never been good with words; they twist up inside of her and never come out right. She makes do with little gestures and and actions, hopes they mean something to someone.

What would _he_ say? Declarations of love? Commonplace words? Una knows she has little experience in the area, but she feels certain that Walter would not have touched her face and looked at her like she was something fascinating and new, despite knowing her since childhood, if he didn't feel - something. Would he? What does she know of love, of men? She has never discussed such a thing with Jerry or Carl, nor does she ever want to. And her father, she thinks, is from a different time - he had barely been alone with her mother until they were married.

"What are you doing today?" she asks Rosemary, suddenly realizing how sullen she must seem.

"Oh, the usual," Rosemary says. "A bit of cleaning - and you mustn't help me, dear, you've too much on your plate today already - and then the choir practice. And Bruce is going home from school with Jimmy MacAllister, I think."

Una nods mechanically, dipping a piece of bread into her milk - a substitution they have all gotten used to, since butter is rationed. She chews and swallows without really tasting it.

"I was going to visit Ellen and Norman after practice," Rosemary continues when Una doesn't say anything. "There's meat and soup in the icebox, and vegetables…" Her voice trails off, and she sighs. "Una, do tell me what's on your mind."

Una stares down at her half-eaten potatoes. Where can she begin? Rosemary knows nothing of her fancy for Walter Blythe - the one she's held for nearly a decade, now. The words are jumbled in her consciousness - she does not think she can rearrange them to make sense. Not yet.

"I don't know," she murmurs. "Things are changing. I don't - I'm not sure if I'm ready for them to."

Rosemary looks as though she wants to say something, but instead she merely covers Una's hand with her own.

* * *

Una finds herself distracted all throughout the day - Rose Lewison, who is just as flighty as Susan had predicted, has to point out that Una has handed her the same sheet music that as last week.

 _What shall I do?_ she finds herself wondering, wringing her hands like Nan Blythe during one of her dramatic episodes.

Oh, she knows what she must do. She must see Walter Blythe, see if she has imagined his intent in her desire to believe her feelings are returned - see if the moment was only in her mind, a friendly touch that means nothing more. No matter what happens - she will have her answer. And that is all she wants.

 _Is it such an impossible thing?_ a little part of her brain repeats. And Una does not know which is the more dangerous - to ignore it, smother her hopes like she always has - or to listen.

* * *

To her surprise, he comes to her.

Father has gone to town in a rush, he had mumbled something about a book he'd forgotten to buy the last time he'd gone; Bruce is staying the night with a friend; Rosemary is visiting Ellen. And Una is home - choir practice cut short by half the children not showing up due to hay fever - counting stitches as she hasn't since she was a child, almost absurd, she knows, in her concentration. So focused is she on making her stitches as tiny as possible that, when the doorbell rings, she drops the mending and the thread unspools halfway across the room.

Outside, the air is thick and heavy; the sun is only just beginning to set, the harsh afternoon shadows giving way to something softer, muted and hazy.

And Walter Blythe is standing on the porch.

"Hello," he says. His voice is calm - how is he so calm?

"Hello." She wants to do something with her hands - tug at her skirt, sweep hair out of her face - but finds that she cannot move.

"I came to return your father's books," Walter says after a moment, lifting the hefty tomes to show her. "I hope he didn't mind doing without them for so long."

So he has not come for her. Something in her deflates.

"I don't think he noticed," Una admits, "but anyway, he's not in. He went to town for a book, I think."

"Oh," Walter says. "I did ask if I could come up when I saw him - well - I could come back - "

"No, don't do that," she says quickly. "He probably forgot. I'll take them."

"All right, then," he agrees, and she lets him in.

They're both quiet as she leads him to her father's study. It is not the companionable silence that they have always shared, but rather something strange and tense, so many things that must be said weighing heavy between them.

The Blythes are familiar with the study at the manse; Nan used to come by and borrow books on Jerry's recommendation, the better to argue over them. Jem often used to come by, too, to discuss God with Mr. Meredith - it had come to no surprise when he'd stopped being a member of the church. But Una cannot recall ever seeing Walter here.

"I've never been in this room," he says, as though reading her thoughts. "Your father and I always spoke in Rainbow Valley."

She gives a little hum in response, not wishing to reveal that she already knows that - had wondered, in her small heart, if perhaps her father ever spoke of her to Walter. Ever gave Walter cause to think of her. She shakes her head and takes the books from him, looking at the titles as she puts them back onto the shelf - the writings of Saints Paul and Augustine, selections from German theology, a book of poetry.

"I think I enjoyed St. Augustine's writings the most," Walter says - is it just her imagination, or is his voice too light, too casual? "I used to think him a bit severe - but he seems more applicable, now."

"Wasn't St. Augustine a bit of a - hedonist?" She is out of her depth here, in discussions about literature and philosophy. But Walter doesn't seem to notice.

"Yes," he says. "But he repented. I like his philosophy more than St. Paul's, although they have similar conversion stories - which is what prompted your father to give me their books, I think."

"Augustine wrote about war, as well," she says. She bites her lip in nervousness. Perhaps she shouldn't have brought that up.

"Yes," Walter says. "'Just war.' I don't know - that I agree entirely. But I understand his thinking better than I did. It's easier to understand - appreciate - his reconsiderations. Other schools of thought were more inflexible." He reaches out to touch the spine of one of the books. "'The only truth', they would write."

Una only nods. She does not want him to go, cannot find the words to ask him to stay. Why does she do this to herself?

He turns to her, his face serious. A strange shiver goes down her spine. "That's you, you know," he says quietly. "Una, the only."

Una does not know what to do. Her heart is beating too hard, too fast. He is very close to her, she realizes. She is aware of everything, suddenly - the light freckles that have appeared on his face during a year and a half out-of-doors, the strands of silver standing stark against his black hair, the matching gray of his eyes.

She does not know what possesses her to do it - perhaps emboldened by his words, the thought that he _must_ care, because he is Walter and for all he has changed, he would never be dishonest with her - not about this. And she cannot find the words - can never find the words - so she acts, instead - leans up and kisses his mouth quickly, clumsily, too nervous to do anything more.

When she pulls back his eyes are wide, and she feels a sudden coldness, the certainty that she has made a mistake. She moves away, ready to apologize, but suddenly Walter's hands are on her face, bringing her back to him, mouth gentle on hers. It is everything Una has dreamt of, in the secret dreams she always tries to forget when morning comes. But this is real - so real - no dream will ever be able to compare.

Then the door opens, its creak audible from down the hall, and they pull apart. Without thinking, Una's hand goes to her mouth, as though there is some kind of tangible evidence of Walter's kiss that she might feel - or have to hide.

"Una?"

John Meredith pokes his head into the study, eyes widening when he sees Walter there with her. "And Walter! What brings you here?"

"I was returning the books you lent me," Walter says. His voice is completely neutral, no blush on his face.

"Ah - _ah_ ," John Meredith says, looking shamefaced. "I forgot! Do forgive me - usually Rosemary reminds me of such things, but she's off visiting Ellen."

"It's all right," Walter says. "Una - "

Whatever he is about to say is cut off by Bruce, who runs in chanting "Una, Una, Una!"

"Bruce!" Una says. "I thought you were staying with Jimmy MacAllister tonight."

"He ate a whole box of Redfern's Purple Pills," Bruce says, his voice slowing. The smile falls off his face as he takes in the tableau, his eyes darting between Walter and Una. "He got _awful_ sick, so…Dad came for me on his way home. And he bought me a magazine in town. Will you read me one of the stories?"

"Of course," Una says faintly. She darts a glance at Walter. "Let me see Walter out, and - "

"That's all right," Walter says, stepping away from her. "I'm sure Bruce has been waiting a while for that issue."

" _Months_ ," Bruce agrees emphatically.

"I'll see you out, then," John Meredith says. "It's the least I can do, after forgetting our appointment. Did you enjoy the books?"

Walter nods and turns to Una. "Good-bye." His voice is casual - for a moment she feels hurt - but there is something in his eyes when he looks at her, and she knows that he is thinking of the kiss.

"Good-bye," she says, hoping that he can see the same on her face. She wants to stay there, wants to see how long he will look at her, but Bruce tugs at her hand and she turns away first.

* * *

After Bruce falls asleep and Una kisses her father goodnight, she ends up sitting next to the window, tucking her knees to her chin the way she used to when she was small. She does not know what she had been expecting, but not - that.

What would he have said, had her father not returned? Would he have said anything? Certainly they had not really _talked_. She blushes, thinking of the feel of his mouth against hers.

But the little he had said - _Una, the only_. The words make her arms break out in gooseflesh. Is that how he thinks of her? Nobody has ever seemed to think of her that way, wanted her in that way, and now - and now.

Well. She has her answer, she supposes. But there is another, stranger question - what does she do, now?


	20. the shape you've grown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Never Look Away" by Vienna Teng.

Walter finds his mother in the garden again. She's been spending more and more time there, nowadays - distracting herself, perhaps, from all she doesn't wish to think about. He can understand that.

His nose twitches as he approaches, and he tries not to cough. Too many flowers, too many scents - how can mother not smell it? It's overwhelming, like gas creeping over a trench. He takes a shaky breath before coming to sit on the little white bench next to the garden.

"Walter!" Mother says. She seems pleased, smiling at him in her kind, understanding Mother-way. "What brings you out here?"

Walter just shrugs, not sure what to say. _I need your help. I don't know what to do, or how I feel._ How easily words had come to him, once - but then, has he ever felt something so difficult to describe?

"I just thought I'd come visit with you," he says finally. "I'm sorry I can't help in the garden anymore."

Mother waves him off with a smile. "Oh, don't worry. Susan and Rilla help me, and vegetables are much hardier than flowers - _sometimes_ ," she adds, giving a patch of wilting lettuce a dark look. "Even little Jims is helping nowadays - well, I suppose he's not so little anymore. How hard it is, to watch children grow up." She smiles at Walter fondly. "I remember when _you_ were his age."

Walter thinks back - how old is Bruce now? Nine? The Merediths hadn't moved to the Glen yet, when he was nine - his closest friends had been Di and Jem and Charlie Crawford at school, Alice Parker when he went to Lowbridge. He had yet to become infatuated with Faith's golden looks, be replaced by Jerry as Jem's lieutenant - not that Walter begrudges Jerry this. Not anymore, at least.

He had yet to meet Una.

She cares for him, then. Has it always been so? He tries to remember - why hadn't he looked at her more often, before? He can't recall if she's ever spoken more than common, kind words to him. She had written to him at Redmond, this he remembers - her letters hadn't been anything like poetry, but somehow her words had stayed with him.

 _Why did I kiss her?_ he wonders, and then nearly laughs - this is not the first time he has asked that question. For he has kissed her before, touched his lips to hers just briefly before stepping on the train to Valcartier. It had been easy to forget, in light of everything that came - after. But sometimes he remembered, lying awake in Belgium or France or wherever they moved, listening to rain splatter against the tarp above his head. He never really found an answer - it was only - it had seemed right, at the time. Just like kissing her back, drawing her closer, had seemed right the other day.

And he had wanted to, certainly - the same odd desire that had swept through him that day by the Methodist graveyard. Only - only he had not realized how _badly_ he had wanted to until she kissed him first. He can still feel it, the ghost of her lips on his, warm and dry, as quick and hesitant as she had been. And he had wanted more, so then - so then.

"Things were easy," he finally says, "when I was Bruce's age." He leans forward - slowly, carefully, his back doesn't even creak - propping his elbows on his knees. "I never realized how easy."

Mother smiles, a bit wistfully, absentmindedly tugging at a flower that Walter can see does not really need to be pulled out. "I suppose we wanted to give you children all that we never had. Especially…" her voice trails off and there is a far-off look in her eyes. Then she shakes her head. "But I suppose for all that - there are still things we couldn't do."

Walter slides off the bench, comes to kneel next to her as best he can, taking shallow breaths to avoid the scent of flowers. "You did well. I told Rilla, before I went, how lucky we were - how well we were loved. A little spoiled, even," he admits.

Mother laughs at that. "I never quite had it in me to be very strict," she says. "Your father always did have to be the disciplinarian, in this house."

How good they are together, Mother and Father - "made and meant for each other," as old Aunt Rachel used to cluck, whenever they visited Avonlea. How do people _know?_ How did Mother and Father know?

"How - " he starts, then stops, staring at his hands, fingers curled in the soil. He has never, he realizes, written a poem about love, exactly - about beauty, yes, about pining and longing- but never quite about that sweet and elusive feeling. Once, there had been Jem to ask, but Walter had never thought to broach the topic with him - milksoppish as he would have felt, talking of such a thing with his brother. In the trenches, talk of women was lewd at times, wistful and longing at others - but sentiment was something best kept to themselves, confined to photographs they looked at when they thought no one saw them and letters written in whatever time they had. Walter knows nothing of love, he realizes.

He knows that Una is his friend, that she is softer and kinder with him than he deserves, that they have become closer in the past months, that she has told him things that she has not told anyone, save perhaps Rosemary, or Shirley (he knows that he has suddenly begun to wonder about her and Shirley, and finds the thought - unpleasant). He knows that he thinks of her more often, thinks of her smile and mouth and eyes as he never has before. He knows that he misses her when she is not around. He knows - he knows - he doesn't know anything.

"Something is on your mind," Mother notes, carefully tugging a large caterpillar off of the lettuce. The caterpillar, much used to living off the fat of Ingleside's land, can barely squirm before it is callously tossed aside, for Mother could never bring herself to squash them.

Walter coughs out a laugh. "Is it that obvious?"

"Mother's intuition," she says with a wink. "Tell me. I'd say come sit on my knee, as well, but I'm afraid you're too old for that."

Walter sighs, not knowing where to begin. "It's just - " It is just that Una is too lovely, too sweet, for what he is now. Walter has never been vain, but even he knows that he was good-looking enough, with grand plans for his future - and now he is scarred and wounded and the thought of anything more than a quiet life makes his hands shake uncontrollably. As much as Una cares - if she still cares - what an ugly shock she would receive, seeing his scars in full, having to touch him, waking next to him in the throes of some nightmare. And how good she is, and how good he is not - will he ever be able to look at his hands and not see blood? What a life he would condemn her to, with him, with his nightmares and his bitterness, the odd angles at which he has healed and the wounds that still gape.

"I don't know," he finally admits. "I'm afraid for once I don't know how I feel."

"Ah," Mother says. She leans back on her heels, pulling off her thick gardening gloves and tucking flyaway red strands behind her ears. "Would I be correct in guessing that this is about Una Meredith?"

Walter blinks. And stares. And blinks again. "My God, how does everyone _know_?" he finally manages.

"Oh, I didn't," Mother says. "I never even thought of such a thing - it was really Miss Cornelia and Susan - but I _did_ notice you two becoming rather close."

"It's only Una," Walter mumbles at his hands, for it is all he can think of to say - only Una. _Una, the only_.

Mother only hums a little, pulls some weeds threatening to choke the June lilies. Waiting for him to find the words, he knows.

"It's not like it is in the books, is it," he finally says, a bit foolishly.

"No, not quite," Mother says. She smiles a bit ruefully. "It took me quite a while to figure that out myself - I had such grand ideas! There was romance and poetry, and I think a castle in Europe, too." Her eyes twinkle at that last one. "And you were always so much like me, I'm afraid."

Walter has to smile, too. Perhaps he does not have a castle in mind - though there _was_ a house in Venice - but his whole life, Walter has been waiting - waiting for someone striking and golden, who speaks in poems and songs. Una is none of that, and yet - he can see some kind of future stretched ahead of him, living with memories he cannot lay to rest, but there is sweetness there, too. He sees Una at his side, gentle and kind and so much stronger than he is, in her way - and he wants this future so badly that it frightens him.

He almost laughs. So he does love her - he loves Una - has loved her for some time, now. It's almost a relief - to know that he loves her, that what he feels is certain and true, that he _can_ love, that he has something left and even something new.

"I think I understand, now," he says slowly. "I'm only afraid that - " he looks down at his hands, knowing that further up, under his sleeves, his skin is burned and twisted and stretched over bones that ache. "I'm afraid that I am not quite deserving of - anything."

Mother leans back, turns to face him for the first time since he's sat down. Her fingers brush through his hair, smoothing it back as though he's a child again. "Perhaps that is for her to decide."

* * *

It takes him the better part of an hour to compose the note. Poetic words, commonplace words - none of them seem quite right. In the end, he only asks that she speak with him. They can finish this, he thinks, this odd, strange dance they have been doing - since before his return, he realizes, since the beginning of the war, the dance of her hesitant kindnesses, his own obliviousness.

Rilla comes in, mending basket on one arm, Jims in the other.

"What are you writing?" she asks.

"A note," he says. "To Una Meredith."

Whatever reaction he had been expecting, Rilla's is not it: her eyes go wide, and then she smiles, a cat's smile that stretches slow and smug over her face.

" _Oh?_ " she asks. "What for?"

Walter shakes his head. "I believe you know perfectly well, Rilla-my-Rilla."

Rilla presses her lips together, trying to hide her smile, then she shrugs. "Yes, I do."

He pauses, and for a moment the doubts resurface. "What if she doesn't care for me?" Oh, he knows she cares, now - she would not have kissed him otherwise; Una is not like that. But there is so much she does not know, has not seen of him. He would not blame her, if she ran.

Rilla tilts her head at him. "Sometimes I wonder if Ken still cares for me," she says slowly. "If he's forgotten me, 'over there' - if I'm waiting for someone who isn't waiting for me. But I 'keep faith' - I know you don't like that poem much, anymore," she adds when Walter opens his mouth. "But I still think of that line, sometimes. So - you should 'keep faith,' too."

 _Keep faith_. Una has, he knows - loyal and dear as she is. For her brothers and her friends - and for him, he realizes now. Waited for him, believed in him. She had begun everything: sent him the first letter at Redmond, spoke to him first when he returned. Kissed him first.

So now it is his turn.


	21. so i ask you to meet me tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Abound" by Andreas Sahar/Vienna Teng.

"Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile!" the Clow girls sing as they leave the manse, joined hands swinging.

"Yes, _do_ smile, Una," Rosemary says. She comes to stand at the door, waving Helen and Grace down the road. Una, next to her, can only press her lips together. Rosemary shakes her head, loops their arms together as they turn back inside.

"I daresay you might take over my lessons for the rest of the year," Rosemary says. "I'm not as young as I used to be, you know."

Una smiles at her stepmother. It is hard to ever see Rosemary as old - even approaching her middle age, she is still bright-eyed and sweet. Some people, perhaps, never grow old - Rosemary in her delicate kindness, Mrs. Blythe in her silly, flighty ways.

Una does not believe she will ever be one of them. She has always felt old - and _tired_ , so tired, eaten alive by worries and fears. Moreso than ever, these days.

Rosemary sits down on the old, high-backed chair that creaks and groans under everyone's weight but never quite breaks, tugging Una down to sit near her. "Una," she says, "if I were to ask what's on your mind - would you be honest with me?"

Una's fingers go to her collar, pinching the skin under her dress away from the bone as she thinks. Her first instinct is to lie - _only tired, only a bit worried_. But she is so tired of lying and hiding, of pretending words and actions mean nothing.

"I've tried to be subtle," Rosemary hurries on at Una's silence. "I wanted you to come to me, but - I am worried. You seemed so happy, and then all of a sudden…" she trails off. "You know I will always listen to you, Una."

Something in her voice, or perhaps her understanding eyes, breaks Una. She presses her face into her hands, feeling all of the tension and worry of the past few months seep out as tears.

"Oh, darling," Rosemary murmurs, moving to sit next to her on the sofa, stroking her hair.

"Rosemary, I believe I am having a love affair," Una chokes out, laughing through her tears at the absurdity of her words. How ridiculous this all is! Did Faith ever cry this way over Jem?

Rosemary's hand stills, but her voice is even. "With Walter Blythe?"

Una nods, smiling stupidly as she wipes tears away. So Rosemary knows - perhaps always knew. Everyone knows, even old Elder Clow. Her carefully-kept secret - the secret she never even wrote about in her diary, for fear someone would find it - is exposed. To her surprise, it is a relief.

The whole story spills out, Rosemary giving sympathetic little hums, even laughing at a few parts. Una hesitates when she comes to kissing Walter in Father's study, but gives in and admits that, too. Rosemary's eyes widen - Una knows that such behavior might be expected of Faith or the Blythe girls, but never of her.

When she is finished, though, she feels strangely lighter, as though all her secrets had held actual weight, pinning her down. Rosemary's arm comes around her shoulders, and Una leans into her stepmother.

"It is confusing, isn't it," Rosemary muses. "Love, that is."

Una nods against her shoulder, another thought occurring to her. "How long have you known?"

"Oh, it was only a suspicion," Rosemary says, tucking a strand of hair behind Una's ear. "Ever since you were children - the way you used to follow him around a bit. But I never really _knew_ until he came back. You two were spending so much time together - and you seemed happier than you have in a while - and then suddenly you went back to looking so worried and pale. I thought perhaps you two had quarreled."

"Quite the opposite," Una murmurs, remembering the warmth of his mouth on hers, the way he had looked at her. She sighs. "I don't know what to do, Rosemary."

"Ah, you think the old maid does?"

"You were only _almost_ an old maid," Una corrects her, half-smiling.

Rosemary smiles too. "I think Walter is the one you should ask. I know you can," she adds, when Una tries to protest. "You are so much braver than you know. Do you think your father and I would have survived, these past few years, without you to help us?"

Una feels herself quail under praise, as she always does. But some strange steel in her spine holds her upright, and she finds - she can believe Rosemary's words, just a bit.

* * *

She and Rosemary do the cleaning and cooking, passing dishrags and measuring cups between them. They do not speak of Una's confession - there is nothing more to be said. Every now and then, they catch each other's eye and smile. It reminds Una of the early days of - could it be called a courtship? - between her and Walter: the secrets shared, the easing of their burdens. How good it feels, to _tell_ things to people. Una does not want to forget this.

Bruce comes home as they are peeling carrots. Once, he would have offered to help - now he skips by, book-bag thumping against his legs.

"Are you quite busy, Bruce?" Rosemary calls after him.

"Uh-huh," he says, doubling back to stand in the doorway. "I suppose I should tell you - " he has the grace to look shamefaced " - I didn't do my sums today because Harry Lewis and I were looking for ant colonies and didn't hear them calling us back in - well, Harry says we were hunting ants, but _I_ don't think so - just looking for them. _Anyway_ , Teacher said she wouldn't be cross with us as long as we turned in the sums tomorrow - so I _am_ quite busy, Mother."

Una has to cough to cover up her laughter.

"Oh! I almost forgot," Bruce says, poking his head back into the kitchen. "Una, there's something for you."

"Hm?" Una says, only half-listening.

"I saw Walter Blythe on the way home," he says with all the casualness of someone who does not know the great events of which they are a part. "He asked me to give you this."

Una drops the knife - thankfully onto the counter this time - turning mechanically to receive the folded paper Bruce presses into her hands. It is a small note, but Una knows its contents before she even opens it - she herself had delivered one just like it, years ago.

Walter Blythe asks her to meet him tonight, by the brook in Rainbow Valley.

* * *

It is still summer, and the sun is still not quite below the horizon when Una sets off for Rainbow Valley. It is quiet - so quiet, the air still, as though all the world is holding its breath.

Walter is not sitting as he normally is; he is leaning against the White Lady, face obscured by shadow. He looks up, though, when she approaches, and she sees the worry on his face, the exhaustion. How difficult it has been for them, unable to talk to each other, she realizes. Perhaps they have ruined everything, perhaps she has ruined their friendship by pushing too far.

But no - he is _looking_ at her again, and Una thinks - perhaps nothing is ruined at all.

"Hello," he says quietly.

"Hello."

They both hesitate, then. Una finds herself rocking back and forth on her heels, swaying, trying to arrange her thoughts. She leans forward and almost has the strength to speak; she leans back and swallows the words.

"I don't quite know how to begin," Walter says finally, when the silence stretches horrible and taut. "I'm a little afraid of you, you see."

"Afraid of _me_?" Una almost laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of it. "Whatever for?"

Walter shakes his head, continuing as though she hasn't spoken. "I can pretend, sometimes," he says, slowly. "I can walk - and talk - as though I'm a man, as though I haven't done - haven't seen - all that I have. There are days where I can believe it. But I'm not."

Una remains quiet. He wants to say more; she can sense it.

"And you - are so kind," Walter says. There is an almost imperceptible tremor in his voice. "I have come to realize - that I care for you." The words come out so slow and measured - Una wants to shake him, make him speak faster, let her _know_ quicker.

"I care for _you_ ," she says, softly - just a bit fiercely.

"That's it, though," he says. "I can't - I am not - I won't ever be _right_ again, Una. "

"You don't have to be," she says, realization dawning on her. He can't think - that she would reject him, that she doesn't care for him the way he is now. How could she not? She has loved him for so long, loved him even as half the Glen thought him a coward, treasured every letter he wrote, thrilled whenever he found the time to speak to her, listen to her. As if any of that has changed.

"But I should be," he says. He looks at her for the first time since she's come to stand next to him, his face more serious than it has been in a while. He looks, for a moment, as haunted as he did when he had first returned, and Una shivers.

"I can live with myself, most days," he continues. "But to ask anyone else to live with me - it would be unfair. You deserve to be happy."

"No, _listen_ to me," Una says - Walter's eyes widen at the sharpness of her voice, but Una is too far gone to think of that. "I have loved you since we were children - since the day I saw you at the train station! I would be happy with you. Do you think I care for - any of this?" She suddenly wants to touch him, make him realize, and she reaches up to his collar, fingers finding the shiny, taut skin where he has been burned. She has never touched him there - not before he went, and not when he returned - and is surprised by the smoothness of the skin, how unlike Walter it feels. But not revolted, not alarmed.

Walter bows his head but does not push her away. He does not say anything, either, and Una recoils from the intensity of her emotions.

"I only - I only mean to say - that I still care," she says weakly. What _is_ it about Walter, that all of her feelings come slipping out around him? She cannot hide her feelings with him, as she is always able to with others.

 _Love_ , she reminds herself, and almost laughs. Of course.

Finally, Walter lifts his head, and even in the lengthening shadows of sunset, Una can see the light in his eyes. His hand comes to cover hers on his collar, and he threads their fingers together.

"So then," he says, and all that he leaves unsaid is spoken in his face, in his eyes. He leans his cane against the White Lady and reaches up to cup her face. "May I?" he whispers.

Una almost laughs - as though he has to ask. But it means something that he does.

"Yes," she says, and then his mouth is on hers once again. It is nothing like before - it is better, now, made sweeter with the certainty between them. Something warm and aching has opened up deep within Una, pushing out all her shyness and fear, and she wraps her arms around him quite shamelessly, pulling him closer. He laughs, too, breath warm on her mouth, and holds her in return.

When they part, he touches his forehead to hers, bending almost comically low - Una knows she is the shortest of all the Blythes and Merediths.

"I am not easy to live with," he says - calmly. "Una - for all I have told you - there is so much more that is a part of me, now. I want for you to know - I don't want you to be disappointed."

Una is quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. He does not mean any of this lightly, this she knows. But she also knows that he is still thoughtful and kind, still sees her despite her plainness, hears her despite her quietness. That is what matters.

The words tangle in her mouth, though, as they always do. "But the good things about you, Walter - those haven't changed," she says. "And - they are worth everything else." She turns her face up to him, letting her mask slip away - she has arranged it so carefully, ever since she was a child, knows how to make her face calm and placid, slate-blank and unreadable. Una lets all of her emotions come to the surface, praying he will see them.

And Walter does see, she can tell, his face relaxing as his eyes search hers. Always, always, Walter has been able to read her, know what she means to say though she can never quite say it. That hasn't changed, either.

"Besides," she adds, cracking a small smile. "I am not so easy to live with, either. I am resentful - and hateful - and I can't cook nearly as well as Susan. What do you think of that?"

Walter smiles and just shakes his head, reaching out to brush her hair away from her face. "I think - that I love you," he says simply.

"And I you," Una whispers. They bend together, the setting sun casting their shadows over the brook till they meld with those of the trees, and they remain that way for a while.

* * *

"Since we were _children?_ " Walter repeats incredulously, some time later.

They are ambling through Rainbow Valley, quite unconscious of time and other earthly matters. Walter's arm is around her waist, and Una feels almost perfectly content. There is still a war, she knows - a war that may last for years. Her brothers may never come back home. But she has something, now, to hold on to, and - if the flood comes, she will not be swept away, and that makes things - all right.

"Are you going to cast it up to me?" Una asks with a smile, ducking her head. "I don't think I hid it as well as I would have liked."

"I never knew," Walter marvels. "But then - perhaps I did know. I thought of you, you know, while I was 'over there.' Of your letters - the little things you said. I saw you so clearly, sometimes - as though you were very near me."

Una does not say anything. Her heart feels full to bursting at his words, and she lets herself lean into him. His hand is warm in hers, and she feels - not for the first time this night - the thrill that this is how things can - will - be. She could kiss him again if she wants to - can kiss him all she likes, now. The thought is so bold that she blushes - but then, what is there to be shy about, either?

They wander for a while longer, letting the night fall over them as they talk and laugh and sigh, years of silence broken between them. The sky is turning dark blue; the lights have come on at Ingleside. Above them, the moon glows bright in the sky - only a crescent, a sliver. The first few stars pinpoint their way in the dark; they always remind Una of thin needles pricked through wool.

A thought has occurred to her. "Would you have said anything to me, if Father and Bruce hadn't come home, that day?" she asks.

Walter blushes. "We didn't - er - _talk_ much, did we?"

"No," Una says. She can smile at the memory now - it is no longer horrible and tantalizing, only sweet.

"I didn't know what to do," Walter admits. "I wanted to see you - I _did_ have to return those books, you know."

"I believe you," Una says with a laugh.

"I didn't know what it meant, at the time," he says, his voice soft. "I thought I would _know_ , instantly, as they do in books - will you cast _that_ up to me?"

"I think you did know," Una says. "You only didn't realize." And she doesn't care, she is too overjoyed to mind. And she cannot think of any other words, so she draws him close to her and kisses him again.


	22. epilogue: the last snowfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Dudes! I finished a fic! Crazytown! Huge thanks to everyone that's read/commented/looked at this fic sideways. ILU GUYS ;_;
> 
> Also, bonus DVD features/rambling about this dumb fic [here](http://polytechnics.livejournal.com/9701.html) fyt!)
> 
> Title from "The Last Snowfall" by Vienna Teng.

The snow comes early this year, drawing its white sheets over the Glen, turning the days bright like the flash from an explosion. At night, Walter looks out the window as he always does, looks at the pale moon over the pale ground, and wonders - well, there is not much to wonder about, now. The Flanders trenches must be quiet now, no more evening hate and nighttime raids, shells and shouts - the howl of the wind the only sound.

But then, for all the silence, they are not quite empty. Thousands of men left sleeping 'somewhere in France', who will never come back home. Some things, Walter knows, will remain.

* * *

The noise in the party is overwhelming - too many people, all talking and laughing and shouting, songs played clumsily on the piano, glasses clinking. Walter has to slip away, after a while.

The party tonight doesn't quite have an express purpose. It is for Carl, in part - Jerry has written, he expects to be back in January; Shirley won't be back till spring or even summer, nor will Faith - it is in part for Mary and Miller, who are officially engaged and planning a fall wedding. It is in part for _him_ , for shortly before Christmas, a Toronto publisher had sent him a letter agreeing to publish a collection of his poetry. Walter had been dumbfounded, until the call from Di came, asking if her and Nan's clandestine plan had succeeded. They are dear girls, his sisters.

"The Aftermath" had been published, coincidentally, on the anniversary of his injury. It made less of a stir than expected - several other fellows had been writing their own poems; in July one named Sassoon had written a letter as well, and in all that excitement, Walter's poem had been quite lost - floating to the surface throughout 1918 in petitions for peace and sentimental papers, then sinking again. That is all right with him. It is enough that it is written at all.

"I thought you'd be out here," comes Una's voice. She comes to sit next to him, their shoulders pressing together. It is comforting to be so close to her, feel the softness of her body through her clothes, the movement of her breathing - feel that she is alive and so is he, and she is near him.

The party is - or should be - for Una, too. Her birthday is in a few days, although it is always somewhat buried under excitement for Christmas - and now the elation of victory. But Walter remembers.

"Too loud?" she asks, and he nods.

"Too loud."

"We can't stay outside for too long," Una points out, rather prosaically. Still, she is right - neither of them have a coat or a scarf. The tips of her fingers are already bright red.

He shrugs and leans in to kiss her, catching her lower lip between his own when she tilts her face to him. Her breath is warm in his mouth, and for a moment he forgets the cold around them, heat coiling low in his stomach. Kissing Una, he's found, is a bit dangerous - it is hard to stop, once he starts. But stop he does, drawing back - but not too far. Her hand curls into his collar, keeping him close when they part.

She leans against him, and he shifts to lean his head on hers, her hair soft against his face. She smells of smoke from the fire inside, and flour from baking bread. The scents are familiar, dear to him now - as everything about her is. It is true that she had not lied, that night in Rainbow Valley - at times, she buries her feelings deep, her face white with pent-up hurt and anger, and coaxing her out of such a mood is like pulling teeth. But he is patient for love of her, as she is with him, and he is almost perfectly content, at times. And that, he thinks, is the most he can ask for.

They are silent for a while, listening to the sounds coming from inside. There's a rousing cheer and some groans - likely someone had won a round of cards. Walter is not sure how Carl can stand all the noise. Perhaps he too has slipped out, gone down to Rainbow Valley in blessed silence.

"How is Carl?" he wonders aloud.

Una gives a little sigh, her breath clouding in front of them before disappearing. "He's - well enough, I suppose. He sleeps - more than he used to."

"He has quite a bit of sleep to catch up on."

"And his eye - " she motions to her own as though she can communicate Carl's troubles that way.

Walter nods. He knows.

They lapse back into silence, for they have never needed very many words between them. Una's hand slips into his, their fingers folding around each other. Walter suddenly feels an intense burst of something like gratitude - that he is here, that he is with her. _Lucky_ , they had called him, once. Perhaps it was not entirely untrue.

"What are you thinking of?" Una asks, her voice almost sleepy.

"I was thinking…" Walter pauses, then shakes his head. "This moment, now...I'm quite happy."

Una makes a muffled noise - a laugh or a cry, he is not sure. The wind whistles more sharply, the air becoming colder. A few flakes of snow float down, catching in Una's hair, melting against their skin. They will have to go in soon, before they catch their death of cold.

_But we can stay for a little longer_ , Walter thinks, and so they sit, lending each other their warmth, as the snow falls around them.


End file.
